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PRESENTED BY 













HENRY LYLE 


OR 


LIFE AID EXIST El CE. 


By EMILIA MARRYAT. 

> *• 

Daughter of the late Captain Marry at 


AUTHOR OF “TEMPER,” 


“ The ignoble never lived ; they were awhile 
Like swine, or other cattle here on earth, 

Their names are not recorded on the file 
Or life that live so. ” 

Bex Joxso.v. 


MEW YOKE: 

GARRETT, DICK & FITZGERALD, 

(LATE “ GARRETT ’& CO") . 

18 Ann Street. 









•% 



















• t 




















CHAPTER I. 


“Henery!” screamed a sharp, shrill voice, from the top of a 
steep staircase ; and a little child who owned a name some- 
thing similar in sound to the scream, started as he heard it, 
and flushing a deep red over his before pallid face, rose from 
■•he stool where he had been sitting, to obey the call. His 
x aste was unfortunate in its results, for in rising he threw 
from his lap the pencil and paper and other drawing materials 
which it had held ; and he commenced hurriedly picking them 
up, when again the shrill sharp voice came down the stairs — 
“ Henery 

The voice was followed by the owner of it, and poor little 
Henry turned very pale again, more than naturally pale, as he 
saw the impersonation of the voice, his grand-aunt, appear at 
the door. 

Miss Lyle was a rigid lady of fifty-five ; very little indulgent 
to the weaknesses of childhood ; very forgetful that she herself 


4 


Henry Lyle. 


had once been a child — if indeed she ever had been, which 
was difficult to believe — and that probably, at that period, she 
had been a much more unpleasant child than it would be easy 
again to find, judging by the style of woman which she had 
made. 

“ Henery !” she repeated, as she arrived at the door — for 
three syllables she always would make of poor little Henry’s 
name — “ why on earth don’t you come when you are called ?” 

“ I was coming, aunt,” commenced the child ; but the sen- 
tence was prematurely choked by a good sound shaking, it 
being Miss Lyle’s method to inject morality into the mind by 
ejecting the breath out of the body. The child caught his 
breath as he was released from the lady’s clutches, and offered 
no further remonstrance. He was used to it, and had become 
— the most painful of all conditions for a child — callous to ill- 
usage. 

But Miss Lyle was not to be pacified by patient endurance. 
Her eye fell upon the scattered articles which had fallen from 
Henry’s lap, and she exclaimed : 

“ Ah ! that’s what you’ve been at again ! I have told you 
before, I won’t have any scribbling or daubing, making the 
house in a litter ; give them here !” 

The child hesitated. 

“ Give them here !” repeated the lady, imperatively. 

“ I cannot, aunt,” said Henry, gathering up the beloved 
instruments of art, which consisted only of a pencil and three 
or four common little cakes of paint. Miss Lyle snatched up 
the little drawing which the child had been occupied in mak- 


Henry Lyle. 


5 


ing, and without troubling herself to glance at it, she tore 
it into pieces, and crumpled it into a hall. 

Little Henry sighed as he saw the labor of a morning 
destroyed so recklessly ; hut perhaps the thought occurred to 
him that he had yet in his possession the power of malting 
many more such ; and he clutched the little hand in which the 
paints were held the tighter. 

“Give them here !” repeated Miss Lyle ; and the child 
answered again, “ I cannot, aunt,” as if the possibility of his 
complying with her request were beyond his conception. They 
were all his earthly treasure. % Henry Lyle had lost his father 
and his mother ; all his playthings had been taken from him 
and burnt by his aunt, on the plea that they made a litter ; 
but he had still his dear drawing materials, and these he could 
not part with. Miss Lyle was a woman of determination, a 
woman of a strong mind, not caring for the absurd resistance 
of a child, and that a mere infant of five or six years old ; so it 
took her very little time to twist the paints and pencil out of 
Henry’s hand, which was by no means a strong one, and to 
toss them into the fire. This feat accomplished, and wound up 
by a box on the ears of Henry, the lady left the room. 

But the cry of agony little Henry gave when he fully under- 
stood his loss ! The blow he endured patiently, but when the 
giddiness consequent upon it was over, and he saw the cruel 
fire instantaneously burning up the treasures of his heart, he 
clasped his little slight hands together, and it seemed to his 
baby imagination that thenceforth the world was to him a 
blank. 


6 


Henry Lyle. 




And who was Miss Lyle, who thus tortured a little soul 
placed in her care ? A woman grown old in vanity and sin ; 
tarnished by contact with the world, hardened by its evil influ- 
ences. And the victim, over whom she had become self-con- 
stituted tyrant ? A guileless miniature of the Almighty Image, 
fresh from God’s hands ; a living and palpable reproach in its 
innocence to such as Miss Lyle for their full-grown want of it ; 
the model which was given to all to attain to, as being what 
they must resemble ere fit for that kingdom of which such as 
little Henry are. 

Henry Lyle had no childhood such as loving parents make 
for little children. And yet he was happy in his way. His 
aunt was his tyrant, but the child dreamed and fancied, and 
drew his fancies upon paper, and was not sad or desponding. 
Certainly at times, if he caught the eye of Miss Lyle fixed upon 
him scrutinisingly, the little face would draw down into a 
gravity most un-babylike ; but the gravity was soon forgotten 
when the cause was removed, and Henry was again a child — 
a thoughtless, uncareful, forgiving child — who would have 
kissed his tyrant the moment after she had maltreated him. 
So innocent a spirit cannot hold unhappiness. 

The occasional money which he received at odd times was 
by Henry again saved up, and fresh paints and pencils were 
bought, which were kept more closely than the last, and, spito 
of all opposition, the beloved occupation was pursued. 

Had Miss Lyle been possessed of any taste, or indeed any 
sense, she would have looked more nearly at the little child’s 
artistic productions before so ruthlessly destroying them, al* 


Henry Lyle. 


7 


though, after all, perhaps, with such scrutiny, her ultimate acts 
might have been the same, for Miss Lyle despised anything 
that bordered upon a litter. Order was her idol; which 
extended, however, no further than mere outward arrange- 
ments, for we reckon, had any one looked within that stiff 
erection of flesh and bones, there would have been found 
a great deal of disorderly work, both in the heart and mind of 
the lady, which was often evidenced outwardly by her ill 
treatment of the helpless child committed to her charge, and 
her non-appreciation of what a mind in order would delight in. 

But the way in which Henry Lyle became the charge of 
this rigid lady ? As we have said, both his parents died when 
he was at an early age, and, as the child himself expressed it, 
“ went to heaven, and left him behind.” Miss Lyle had been 
very fond of the little dear during her nephew’s lifetime ; but 
then she saw the little dear only occasionally, and knew none 
of the trouble which young children necessarily must give to 
those who take care of them. 

When her nephew Lyle died, his wife having gone before 
him, he entrusted his child to the care of his aunt, and thence- 
forth Miss Lyle adopted Henry as her own. She intended edu- 
cating him ; indeed, had commenced doing so ; for was not 
Henry between five and six, and therefore fully competent to 
begin hard drudgery and endure the cares of life ? With the 
adoption, of course Miss Lyle acquired the right of corporeal 
chastisement ; also a most necessary ingredient in the education 
of a very young child. 

Also with the adoption, for we must not forget the rights as 


8 


Henry Lyle 


well as the wrongs of the case, Miss Lyle intended making 
Henry her heir ; hut this was dependent upon his own conduct. 
If he displeased her, of course he forfeited her will, and mean- 
while, Miss Lyle had not only the approval of her own easily- 
satisfied conscience, hut the loud encomiums for generosity on 
the part of the various toadies or satellites whom her income 
had made her devoted allies. 

Miss Lyle was possessed of a moderate fortune, and the child 
had nothing prospectively : for his father had left hut a small 
sum sufficient only for his education. This fact the lady im- 
pressed upon Henry’s mind before he hardly understood the 
meaning of £ s. d. 

We have said that Miss Lyle was attended in her earthly 
rotation hy satellites. In their eyes she could do no wrong, or 
perhaps, speaking more strictly according to their words , she 
was faultless ; and with them there was no appeal from the 
harshness of his grand-aunt for poor little Henry. 

There was one word which was associated with his earliest 
years which was repeated in tones of warning to him constantly. 
It was a word which indicated a quality to he abhorred, or, to 
tho child’s imagination, a vice to he shunned. That word was 
Independence. The child was told, at no age at all, that the 
besetting sin of his dead father had been this. Independently 
he had lived, married, suffered, and died. He had never com- 
plained, and never asked for anything, until he left his child 
unfriended, and asked for the infant what he would not have 
demanded for himself. Independence had been the ruin of the 
elder Lyle, and Miss Lyle determined, from the very com- 


Henry Lyle. 


9 


mencement of her authority over Henry, to curb into proper 
submission of spirit any such tendency as the child might dis- 
play towards freedom of thought and opinion. 

Miss Lyle had no knowledge of human nature ; not a parti- 
cle. It is strange, how many there are living, with the great 
book hourly open before their eyes, and every experience of life 
calling to the study, who never to their last day learn the uni- 
versally necessary lesson ; who seem to close their eyes wilfully, 
and stop their ears, lest observation should make them wise, 
as if fearing to be made more human, and fitter to live in a 
natural world. 

Certes, Miss Lyle might justly have started back, reluctant 
to commence, when the first page presented for her perusal 
was herself, had she better understood the meaning of it ; but 
she was unaware how repulsive such a commencement was, 
for by her circle of acquaintances she had been written in char- 
acters of Hebrew, and Greek, and Latin ; anything but plain 
English. The quality we have alluded to was inherent in 
Henry Lyle, as it had been in his father, in all its native no- 
bility, but it was undeveloped, unknown to Henry himself 
until his grand-aunt coerced his gentle spirit into the very path 
she strove to force him from attempting. 


10 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER II. 


Miss Lyle was in the habit of considering herself a lady, 
yet she was not careful of the language that she used ; and 
Henry, from his earliest days, had vivid pictures passing 
through his mind of unfeminine violence and displays of tem- 
per, painful to associate with what should have been the type 
of gentleness and grace. 

“ Look, aunt, look at the clouds ! they are red, like blood. 
Is God angry ?” asked Henry, at a very early stage of his ac- 
quaintance with Miss Lyle ; and the latter answered sharply : 

“ Don’t talk of such ridiculous things, child and, turning 
to Miss Wigginson, her most constant attendant, she remarked 
to that spinster, “ I really believe the boy is an idiot.” 

“ Yes, indeed, ’m ; he talks like it, ’m.” 

Now Miss Wigginson had never thought for a moment 
whether little Henry was an idiot or otherwise, hut as Miss 
Lyle suggested such might he the case, of course Miss Wig- 


Henry Lyle. 


11 


ginson coincided in the opinion, and reaped the benefit of the 
admission in being allowed to disentangle some knots which 
had contracted in Miss Lyle’s netting by that lady’s own care- 
lessness. 

“What is an idiot?” asked Henry Lyle, some hours after- 
wards, of one of the servants ; and the explanation given, set 
him wondering. Henry did not venture any hypothetical 
opinions as to the clouds again in his aunt’s presence, but he 
did not therefore escape her imputations. His slate was 
almost always returned to him with the sum half effaced to 
be re-added up, accompanied by the monosyllable “ Fool !” 

“ I do not think I am a fool,” ventured the child, the first 
time he was so addressed ; but he received a cuff on the head 
for the contradiction of his superior, and an extra number of 
the sums he hated. Miss Lyle was too stultified by the re- 
bellion of her charge to make any reproof in words, but she 
was supported by an indignant chorus of attendant spirits. 

“ Henry, for shame ! If your good aunt says you are a fool, 
you are a fool.” 

When Miss Lyle’s heavy hand was raised to strike the 
fragile child, who looked as if he might have been broken in 
two by that gaunt woman, did no memory ever rise before her 
mind to check the blow, and make her harshness appear in its 
true light, as an impiety ? Had she quite forgotten that dark- 
ened room wherein she stood, not more than a twelvemonth 
since, where lay the shadow of the handsome Lyle, who she 
had ever prophesied would “ come to a bad end ?” 

Of the badness of his end we will not question. Such a 


12 


Henry Lyle. 


term means, with persons like Miss Lyle, that the one so 
prophesied of shall meet with an early death — death being the 
greatest imaginable evil, as indeed it may probably be, to 
them. 

That room, relieved alone by the subdued burning of a 
shaded lamp, which seemed to fall only upon the face of the 
young man, and throw the grim figure of his aunt into greater 
gloom, giving to him so spiritual a look that Miss Lyle, who 
was of the earth earthly, shrank, she knew not why, from 
contact with the half angel, from the glance of those great lus- 
trous eyes, and felt a cold shudder pass through her frame as 
she took the damp thin hand held out to her, and listened to 
the voice so changed since last she had heard it, buoyant with 
manliness and health. 

Yet, when Miss Lyle had been summoned to her nephew’s 
death-bed unexpectedly — for he had but a few days since 
landed in England — she had fortified herself to meet a scene 
of tears and lamentations, of vain regrets for youth suddenly 
snapped asunder, and hopeless mournings at the approach of 
Death. 

Death was a thing which Miss Lyle ever avoided thinking 
of. She would not associate it with herself. She hated to 
hear that her friends were dead, not because of their loss, but 
it made the whole thing unpleasantly real. She always had 
avoided sick houses : a death-bed she had hoped never to see, 
and now it was forced upon her. 

But Lyle made no such display of alarm as his aunt thought 
must necessarily be experienced. The visionary and ridiculoui 


Henry Lyle. 


13 


ideas, as Miss Lyle had ever considered them, which from 
boyhood her nephew had entertained against the oppositions 
of worldly policy, seemed strangely to have acquired solidity, 
and to have grown into sure bases upon which to rest. 

Miss Lyle understood none of these things : she had looked 
upon them as poetical absurdities. She detested poetry, ajjd 
now she could not hut blindly, yet silently, wonder at ffie calm 
assurance of her nephew as he pressed to his dying breast the 
boy who was his sole remaining earthly treasure,' after the 
formally given promise of Miss Lyle that she would protect 
the child. 

Lyle had a claim upon his aunt to demand thus much for 
his child at her hands, and so she knew. “ And you will 
never forget your father, and will think of his last words to 
you, Harry,” said Lyle, earnestly looking into the face of his 
son. “ You will strive to lead the life of a Christian, and 
wrestle manfully and independently with the difficulties of the 
world ; for it is a painful world, my boy. Your father has 
found it so, and I fear with your father’s blessing you will 
inherit his cares.” 

And little Harry, with the soft action of a woman, smoothed 
the hair from off his father’s forehead, and kissed him, and 
promised, with his blue eyes wide open, with solemnity, while 
Miss Lyle did not know exactly what to do ; she felt herself 
out of place — and she, wearing the form of a woman ! — as she 
looked at the prostrate figure of the dying young man, with the 
little fair-haired, graceful child bending over it, and she won- 
dered that the infant was not afraid. The child was not afraid. 


14 


Henry Lyle. 


even when he saw his father die, hut he followed the direc- 
tion of his eyes upwards, and unconsciously clasped his own 
little hands as the elder Lyle did so. 

Miss Lyle found it very difficult to answer the numerous 
questions put to her most logically hy her new charge, as to 
why he still, as he thought, saw his father, and yet was told 
he had gone to heaven. She became tired after a time, and 
ceased attempting to answer them at all, so that Henry Lyle 
was left to draw upon his own poetical resources for a solution 
of all these things, and, perhaps, came to more correct con- 
clusions with his own angel-taught childishness than he would 
have done from the explanations of his grand-aunt. 

Thus the death of Henry’s father grew a thing to he re- 
membered only formally as an event, excepting hy his child, 
who dwelt upon that evening of his life as the great spot 
between his careless happiness and his grand-aunt — the di- 
vision between his being allowed to ask questions and their 
always meeting with replies, and his yearning for information 
being cooled. Miss Lyle never reiterated to the boy the dying 
words of his father, yet they were distinctly remembered with 
a chivalrous feeling on the part of the child, that his father’s 
principles had differed from the feelings of those now around 
him, and that it was his duty to defend them. So that when 
Miss Wigginson once took upon herself to lecture little Henry, 
he bore the scolding very patiently until the lady made an allu- 
sion to the dead Lyle, as “ your poor papa, who never would take 
advice, and therefore suffered for it ; and if you are not careful, 
Henry, you also will come to a bad end.” Henry inquired 


Henry Lyle. 


16 


why his father was obliged to take the advice of others when 
he was doing rightly ? and why was he to he called poor ? and 
what did Miss Wigginson mean by coming to a had end ? and 
did she intend to say that his father had done wrong in going 
to heaven ? All which questions were asked with such volu- 
bility that the lecturer scarcely knew how to answer, and took 
refuge in telling Henry that he was a very naughty hoy, which 
latter charge her opponent denied flatly, standing with his legs 
very far apart, not being endued with respect for the satellite : 
and afterwards that bright particular star retailed to Miss 
Mangles, her familiar, the whole of the conversation, observing 
that she could make nothing of the child, he was so queer that 
she was half afraid of him, and was sure he would never live, 
particularly as he had a blue vein across his forehead ; in 
which opinion Miss Mangles, being sub-toady to Miss Wig- 
ginson, cordially and enthusiastically agreed. 


16 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER III. 


Henry Lyle received an excellent school education, and 
from early youth worked in earnest at every study which was 
presented to him. He was ambitious and energetic in every 
mental race, and carried off the prizes apparently so easily, 
that his competitors were astonished, hut withal so unassum- 
ingly, that he did not lose his friends, hut changed them into 
admirers besides — all, excepting one. He gained the age of 
seventeen, and his chief desire, his longing ambition, was to go 
to college. But Miss Lyle understood no such feelings on the 
part of her protege. He had learnt to read, write, and arith- 
meticise ; what more was requisite ? Not that poor Henry, 
with all his love of learning, was much of an arithmetician — 
figures were not in his line ; and so Miss Lyle determined upon 
Henry’s adopting, at the age of seventeen, a position of her 
choosing. He should he a banker’s clerk. It was a most » 
respectable situation, a rising situation, one which would be- 


Henry Lyle. 


17 


come lucrative. So, one day, after concluding his last quarter 
at school, when Henry returned home, yet uncertain what was 
to he his next circumstance, he was informed by Miss Lyle of 
the profession to which she intended binding him. 

“ So,” concluded the lady, “you will have to abandon all 
your scribbling” — for Henry Lyle was addicted to covering 
foolscap paper — “ and your painting and what not, and become 
a steady young man. I have arranged everything already for 
you. You have only to ” 

“ To mount the three-legged stool,” interrupted Henry. 
“ Have you really settled it already, aunt?” 

Miss Lyle looked sharply at him. 

“ What now ?” said she, “ do not you like your profession ? 
1 suppose you would wish to be a gentleman at large — eh ?” 

“No,” he answered, “were I to choose my employment, I 
would be a painter.” 

“ A painter !” echoed his aunt, contemptuously, “ don’t be a 
fool ; I should like to see you a painter, indeed ; you had better 
try it.” 

“ When am I to commence ?” asked Henry, submissively. 

“Next month ; next week, if you can. In fact, I see no 
reason why you should make any delay. You had best com- 
mence at once. But mind you, Henery, I expect you to keep 
to your employment. I’ll have no chopping and changing, if 
you please.” 

“ I will if I can, certainly,” the boy answered. 

“ I just wish to say to you beforehand,” resumed Miss Lyle, 
“ that as this is the profession I have chosen for you, I expect 


18 


Henry Lyle. 


you to remain steadily at it. You will have, of course, to give 
up all your present absurd fancies. You are aware that your 
father did not leave you much money ; in fact, no more than 
sufficient to educate you until now, and to place you in a pro- 
fession.” 

“ I know it,” said Henry, rather haughtily. “ I ought to 
know it,” he added, probably thinking of the oftentimes he had 
by his aunt been taunted with the fact. 

“ That now will be expended when the premium for your 
new office is paid. There is now left sufficient only to set you 
going. After that, your course in the world will be dependent 
upon your own exertions ; for it will be according to your future 
conduct that I make you my heir or not, remember.” 

Henry Lyle’s face flushed, perhaps his lip curled, and he 
asked : 

“ Am I not then yet indebted to you for anything but 
your protection of me while a child ?” 

“ I do not know what you mean sir,” answered his aunt. 
“ You have as yet been educated with the money which your 
father left for that purpose.” 

He had risen as he spoke, but, upon her answer, reseated 
himself and sighed, as if relieved. 

“ I will enter upon my new situation whenever you please, 
aunt,” said he. When does Mr. Grant expect me?” 

Miss Lyle looked a little surprised at the reaction hi her 
nephew’s manner, but she was satisfied with his acquiescence, 
and replied : 

“Well, Iienery, I think you had better begin next week, 


Henry Lyle. 


19 


I see no use in wasting time ; I will myself write to Mr. Grant 
this evening, and next Monday — let me see, this is Wednes- 
day — yes, next Monday you will he ready.” 

Henry bowed his head in compliance, and placing his hands 
in his pockets, sauntered out of the house. Somehow, Miss 
Lyle felt a little in awe of the child whom she used to knock 
about and slap. It was not entirely because, though still a boy 
in years, he had grown to the height of a man — it was not 
that there was anything imperious, or unyielding, or authorita- 
tive in Henry’s manner — he was none of these. He was too 
quiet, too gentle, and too reflective. These were what galled 
Miss Lyle. When he raised his eyes and fixed them on her, 
after a tirade of words on her part, she knew that she was 
lowered by the contrast, she felt uncomfortable, and fidgeted 
about the room. When he spoke, though his voice was low, 
and his manner gentle and self-possessed, she would not have 
cared to have interrupted him. She felt it a relief when her 
nephew left the house, even though he had been perfectly 
silent whilst in it. Miss Lyle could battle with the most wordy, 
and fight it out with the most vixenish ; but she could neither 
argue nor listen to reason. She knew her nephew to be her 
superior in every respect, and she felt afraid of him. One 
might see it by the compressed lip, by the nervous twitching 
of the mouth, even when sitting silently in the room with him. 
Miss Lyle was an uneducated woman, who had, by her 
woman’s tact, contrived to pass through life without any un- 
usual manifestation of ignorance. To most she appeared but 
an ordinary person, not distinguishable certainly for mental 


20 


Henry Lyle. 


acquirements, but in no way deficient. But of her real defi- 
ciency she was herself aware. She had native cleverness 
enough to know it, but not energy sufficient to remove her 
ignorance. 

Henry Lyle, boy as he was, was her superior in acquire- 
ments, in education, but much more in capacity. She could 
have forgiven his being better instructed, but not his better 
judgment, his higher standard of thought. She could not 
forget his superiority of moral culture, and feeling herself sink 
in his presence, even by the calm silence and reflective look of 
the student, Miss Lyle began to hate the boy she had promised 
to protect and cherish : the more as now she dared not treat 
him with rudeness or contempt. 

If Henry Lyle had at random drawn his profession, as he 
might have drawn a ticket out of Fortune’s wheel, he could 
not have gained a more entirely unsuitable one to him. It 
was not in his nature to sit upon a three-legged stool. Yet day 
after day he went to town — for Miss Lyle lived in a cottage in 
the suburbs of London — day after day he copied rows of figures, 
with his thoughts wandering away, very recreant to his employ- 
ment. His face grew graver, but not more business-like. 
There was an utter want of calculation in the formation of 
that head ; and often his work was doubled to him by the 
confusion in which his brains were sent whirling by the mad- 
dening- little crooked pieces of importance which drive so many 
to their ruin, and harden the hearts of more. 

Messrs. Garrett and Grant were not half satisfied with their 
new clerk. Several times Mr. Grant discovered him leaning 

O 


Henry Lyle. 


21 


abstractly over the desk, the ledger-book thrust aside, and the 
pen busily employed doing what office pens were never meant 
to do — ske telling imaginary scenes ; while young Lyle’s face 
wore an expression of animation which no pounds, shillings, and 
pence would ever have communicated to it. 

At such times Mr. Grant would speak sharply to the young 
man to recall his attention to his orthodox employment, and 
Lyle would start, having quite forgotten for the moment that it 
was an office desk he leaned against, an office pen he drew 
with, and that he was etching on the office paper. He would 
then, with a checked sigh, return to his dreary employment, 
but Mr. Grant would shake his head, and inwardly augur or 
outwardly prophesy to his partner, Mr. Garrett, that young 
Lyle would never make a man. To look at him, as he grew 
paler every day, so tall for his age and so much too slight, many 
others also might have prophesied the same, although meaning 
differently to the sense of Mr. Grant. 

Miss Lyle never noticed it though. She had gained Henry’s 
compliance with her plan, and she saw very little of him, and 
ever seemed possessed with a fear he should be too late, so that 
she employed herself every morning in hurrying his departure. 

One day Mr. Grant, during an interview with Miss Lyle, 
upon that lady’s inquiring of him how her grand-nephew pro- 
gressed in his situation, expressed his opinion that the office 
was very unsuited to young Lyle’s turn of mind, and his fear 
that he would never succeed in business-life so long as his mind 
was so preoccupied, as it evidently was, with other subjects 
Miss Lyle received the information rigidly, as usual, without 


22 


Henry Lyle. 


much comment ; but when Henry returned home that night 
she eyed him with more than her wonted disfavor, and before 
long she took an opportunity of mentioning Mr. Grant’s visit of 
the morning, and his allusions to himself in the quality of his 
new office. 

Henry Lyle had borne the confinement of the office for weeks 
patiently and silently, but he was more galled by his chains 
from the enforced silence, and now, breaking through all former 
considerations, which had hitherto kept him constant at his 
supposed hard duty, he enforced what Mr. Grant had said 
without reserve — contemning his employment, representing his 
unfitness in every way for his profession, his detestation of it, 
and his utter inability to pursue it much longer. Miss Lyle 
heard him with indignation, as he warmly expatiated f on the 
drudgery of the office-stool ; but she did not attempt to inter- 
rupt the eloquent flow of words which the young man poured 
forth. She heard him with suppressed wrath, and at the 
conclusion of his speech demanded : 

“ And pray what do you imagine would suit your exalted 
ideas, sir ? ” 

“ I have before this told you my wishes,” he replied ; “I 
would be a painter.” 

“ Then be a painter,” said Miss Lyle, “but be a painter on 
your own account, if you please. I’ll have no vagabond, idle, 
good-for-nothing fellows tacked on to me. Go and be a 
painter ; I have done with you. Since you are so mighty 
independent, make your own bread ; you shall not eat mine.” 

“ Have I hitherto lived at your expense?” asked Henry. “ 1 


Henry Lyle. 


2H 

thought you told me, not very long ago, that until now I had 
not been any burden to you in a pecuniary way V* 

Miss Lyle tossed her head as she answered : 

“Nor shall you, sir, ever. I am not yet in my second child- 
hood.” 

From that hour, Henry Lyle breathed anew ; a new feeling 
of independence animated him. Henceforth he would be 
indebted to no one — even for the discomforts of a roof such as 
his grand-aunt had accorded him. He would live on his own 

account. Live, or starve. The latter probability did not 

enter into Henry’s calculations. It does not in the mind of an 
enthusiastic boy of seventeen, with strength, health, above all, 
mental capacity. In early youth we think failure an impossi- 
bility : the consciousness of mental strength is all-buoyant — 
all-sanguine. We imagine that with intellect we can never 
starve ; and so thought Henry Lyle. 

His aunt abused him roundly as a parting gift, accusing him 
of that most unpardonable offence to elderly people — and espe- 
cially to her — independence. But, somehow, Henry did not 
seem to take the accusation as an insult now. It was his new- 
born glory, and would have been his boast, only that he was 
naturally too modest to make a boast of any self-possession. 

Mr. Grant spoke to him very kindly before he left Miss 
Lyle’s unpleasant abode, regretting much that he should lose 
sight of him, and telling him to apply to himself should he 
ever be in any difficulty ; a kindness which Henry Lyle fully 
appreciated, and felt in the manner it was intended. But Mr. 
Grant gave more substantial proof of his good wishes by insist- 


24 


Henry Lyle. 


ing that Henry Lyle should receive hack again at least a good 
part of the sum paid as his premium, without which accommo- 
dation, despicable as filthy lucre is, and is acknowledged to be, 
Henry would have found himself rather inconvenienced, with 
no property but his independence. 

Miss Lyle knew too well the disposition of her nephew to 
expect that he would draw back at the last, and return to his 
original position ; yet, when the time came for Henry’s de- 
parture, she acted as if she had been greatly ill treated by his 
obstinate course of conduct. She spoke of undutifiilness, ingrati- 
tude, and such words which make the hearers feel doubtful 
and uncomfortable, and which are much too freely used by 
some who do not pause to think previously what claim they 
have upon duty or gratitude from those they accuse. Henry 
thanked her for what she had done for him, magnifying, in his 
own regret at what had happened, her occasional kindness or 
forbearance ; but unluckily, before quitting, he made an allusion 
to the new profession he should adopt, expressing a hope that 
he should earn an honest and honourable livelihood. 

Miss Lyle’s prejudices reawakened in a moment, and she 
parted from her nephew with a frigid touch of the hand, and 
no expressed desire of seeing him again. When, some months 
later, Henry Lyle wrote to his grand-aunt, hoping she still felt 
some interest in his movements, there was in the letter no 
humility of regret at having left the comforts of her house, no 
servility of tone such as others usually kept towards her. The 
letter was hopeful, youthful — more, independent; and Miss 
Lyle tossed it into the fire, and condescended no answer. 


Henry Lyle 


26 


Henry did not write again ; for, amongst the qualities of his 
heart, he had that very usual accompaniment of energy and 
ambition, pride ; and he made a mistake in ranking it as a 
necessary one. He then imagined that it was a part of his 
independence ; hut later in life Henry Lyle grew wiser. 

Mr. Grant, his late superior, had expressed a wish to know 
of young Lyle’s movements occasionally ; and Henry, whose 
heart was ever ready to overflow with gratitude for kindness, 
reciprocated warmly the friendship expressed towards him. 

The senior partner in the bank was but a name only — and, 
shortly after Lyle’s removal from the influence of the ledger, 
became not even that — and Henry’s friend and well-wisher 
was the sole possessor of the bank. 

Miss Lyle did not regret the absence of her nephew. It was 
a sort of relief to her that he was gone, and she had ever-ready 
listeners in those who surrounded her to whom she could retail 
again and again, as one of her household narratives, the kind- 
ness and tenderness shown to her protege, and the insolent and 
ungrateful return which he had made ; to which was almost 
invaribly made the same reply by one or other of the sympa- 
thising audience, which helped to flatter the old lady in her 
opinion of herself. 

“ Well, so it is always ; that is the return one gets for kind- 
ness in this world ; but, however, ingratitude will meet with 
its punishment.” Which latter arrangement seemed always 
to give unlimited satisfaction to the whole conclave. 

Mr. Grant never lost sight of young Lyle. He noticed all 

his struggles on the road to fortune or misfortune ; assisted him 

2 


26 


Henry Lyle. 


by advice, and at times more tangibly than by mere words. 
Henry’s first successful picture became the property of Mr. 
Grant, and the latter gentleman grew to look upon his young 
friend as one of the most talented men of the day. By-the-by, 
the banker knew nothing whatever about painting, and would 
have equally admired the merest signboard daub done by a 
personal friend ; which spoke more forcibly for the real interest 
he took in Henry Lyle 


Henry Lyle. 


27 



CHAPTER IV. 


“And what is the use of that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. 
Leigh of her daughter, as Augusta was very busily trying to 
teach herself some mysterious new stitch. “ You have been 
more than an hour over those needles,” continued her mother ; 
“ how you do waste your time, child.” 

“ I hope not, mamma. I did not think I was wasting time 
in learning anything.” 

“ You most certainly are doing so in learning what is use- 
less,” replied Mrs. Leigh. “ To what purpose do you intend 
putting your present employment ?” 

“I do not know,” answered Augusta, abstractedly. “I was 
learning it for the sake of teaching myself against difficulties, 
or for the sake of learning, — anything. I do not think time 
can be wasted, mamma, in such a manner.” 

“ You are an odd child, I must say,” returned Mrs. Leigh ; 
“one would think you were intending to go out as a governess, 


28 


Henry Lyle. 


or a maid-of-all-work , by your anxiety to know everything. 
Have you any intention of settling in Australia?” inquired the 
lady, laughingly. 

“ Not at present, deaf mamma,” answered Augusta, in the 
same manner. “ I hope I shall never he obliged to do so. I 
always think,” continued she, resuming her former quiet man- 
ner, “ that I may some day live to regret not having learnt 
anything which now I may acquire. At least, it can do no 
harm to be capable of doing things which may never have to 
be brought into requisition.” 

“ You have become philosophical, Gussy, which sounds very 
appropriate, no doubt, at the age of fifteen. You have been 
learning it of your cousin Philip. I should like to know what 
my mother would have said to me had I, at your age, talked 
in such a way. Why, she would have stared with astonish- 
ment, and probably boxed my ears.” 

“ Yes, I have learnt a great deal of my cousin Philip,” 
answered Augusta, “although, probably, he, as well as you, 
mamma, would laugh at my taking so much trouble about this 
embroidery, particularly as I am afraid my earnestness in 
following it up is owing chiefly to his having said I should 
never do it.” 

Shortly afterwards, Augusta Leigh exclaimed suddenly, with 
some degree of triumph. 

“ I have succeeded, mamma !” 

Mrs. Leigh smiled at her daughter’s animated pleasure in such 
a trifling acquisition, and at the same moment there entered a 
young man of prepossessing appearance. He was probably not 


Henry Lyle. 


29 


above one-and-twenty years of age, frank-looking, with brown 
hair, brown eyes, and a brown complexion ; an easy way of 
holding himself, and a free-and-easy way of doing everything, 
which partook both of the impudence of the schoolboy and the 
grace of the gentleman. This was cousin Philip, who, on his 
entrance, kissed his aunt and then his cousin with the famili- 
arity of an old playmate. 

“ You can’t do it, Gussy,” said he, as he observed the young 
girl’s employment. “ You will never do it.” 

“ Will I not ?” answered she ; “ and what if I have learnt to 
do it already — eh, Master Phil ?” 

The young man looked at the work she held in her hand 
with unfeigned admiration. 

“ You are a clever girl to be sure, Gussy,” said he. “ I fear 
there was some malice, though, in your learning it so fast.” 

“Only to prove to you that I could; or rather, because I had 
said I could. Do you think I am going- to be baffled by a 
needle and thread ?” said Gussy, with the air of a Caesar. 

Philip Wilson laughed immoderately. 

“ My dear little girl,” he commenced, for being still very 
young himself, of course he patronised his cousin, “ that action 
was capital. You are independence itself. You are a female 
Hercules. I wish I had your spirit of determination.” And 
the young man threw himself indolently into a seat, and 
brushed his hair from his forehead. 

“ Indeed I wish you had, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh, shak- 
ing her head, half reproachfully, half fondly, at her brother’s 
child ; for Philip was an idle boy, who liked to take the world 


30 


Henry Lyle. 


very easily, and seemed to have overlooked the fact that labour 
is man’s duty as well as his heritage, whatever his position or 
prospects — a duty from which he cannot escape uninjured. 
Of course Philip Wilson laughed, as he had always been used 
to do, as if the idea was an amusing one, and he inquired of 
his cousin about her other pursuits. 

Augusta Leigh was no more than a schoolgirl in age, hut 
she was in many respects a woman. Being an only child, she 
had always been the companion of grown people ; her ideas 
were much advanced beyond her age, and throughout her com- 
position there was a touch of independence, which was rather 
combated by Mrs. Leigh, but on the part of Augusta’s father 
was gloried in, brought forward on all qccasion^, and encour- 
aged in every way. Augusta Leigh was naturally clever, and 
Mr. Leigh considered her a prodigy of acquirements and 
accomplishments. True, even at this time she sang very 
sweetly to her guitar, and without apparent effort possessed 
herself of accomplishments. 

Mr. Leigh had served for many years in the Royal Navy, 
had seen a great deal of hard life, had partly spoiled his 
health, but yet, at the age of sixty, he was no further than a 
lieutenant, retired on half-pay, not from want of merit, hut 
from want of any interest to push him forward. Of this fact 
the old sailor was painfully aware, and you could not give Mr. 
Leigh a greater pleasure than in affording him an opportunity 
of roundly abusing the present system in the service, or more 
mortally offend him than in taking upon yourself the task of 
abusing it on your own responsibility. His life was a griev- 


Henry Lyle. 


31 


ance, and men love their grievances, at least if we may judge 
by the tenacity with which they dwell upon them. 

Augusta was her father’s perfection. To him she could 
never be wrong. Her life had been one of uninterrupted sun- 
shine and peace, if such a thing can be ; and at the age of 
fifteen her leading feelings were a devoted love towards the 
father who had ever been indulgence itself to her, a mitigated 
feeling of the same kind towards Mrs. Leigh, for her mother 
certainly came second in Augusta’s loves, and a very warm 
affection for her cousin Philip. 

But as years went on, other feelings rose in the heart of 
Augusta Leigh, without displacing or weakening those we have 
mentioned. Taught by that cousin Philip, who seemed ever 
to mix himself with all her fife, she learnt to love reading, to 
reverence literature, and to bring into practice that spirit of 
inquiry which will be satisfied by knowledge only. 

Mrs. Leigh died when her daughter had reached her eigh- 
teenth year, and Augusta wept for her first grief with the 
violence and the brevity of a child. 

Mr. Leigh soothed his daughter, and strove to divert her 
mind by change of scene. They left the neighbourhood where 
Augusta’s childhood had been spent, and at the time when our 
interest in them commences, Mr. Leigh and his daughter were 
residing in a small house in an inexpensive quarter of the 
metropolis. 


32 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER Y. 


“Who is this Henry Lyle of whom Phil is always speaking ? 
Really, Gussy, he must he a very extraordinary personage, 
from all we hear of him,” said Mr. Leigh to his daughter, at the 
end of a long speech on the part of Philip Wilson, in which the 
expression, “ Henry Lyle says,” had been several times intro- 
duced. 

“ Oh no, uncle, he is not; but you see, when one lives so 
much with a man, one gets to quoting him,” said the young 
man. 

“ And one bores one's friends with his name continually — 
eh, Phil ? But to my question : who is Henry Lyle ? and how 
did you become acquainted with him ?” 

“ He lives in the room above me, and we met, I believe, first 
upon our mutual staircase.” 

“ And who is he ?” redemanded the old officer. 

“ A gentleman,” replied Philip. “He is a painter by pro- 
fession.” 


Henry Lyle. 


33 


“A painter!” exclaimed Mr. Leigh; and there was in the 
exclamation so strong a dash of contempt, that Philip Wilson 
added, rather indignantly, as if feeling that the respectability 
of his friend was in question : 

“ An artist, uncle, not a house-painter, and, moreover, Lyle 
is a very clever man : he took to painting from love of the art, 
although he would have no right to make any such excuse for 
having done so ; for surely an artist’s is as gentlemanly a pro- 
fession as any other.” 

“ I did not say it was not, youngster, did I ? Don’t fire up 
so in defence of your friend, although you are quite right, too,” 
said the uncle. “ And so you and this fellow are great friends 
all at once ?” 

“Not all at once, for I have known him some months now. 
Really, uncle, I must bring Lyle here : you would not laugh at 
him if you knew him.” 

“ He is a rising genius, then ? — one of your clever young chips, 
who knows better than any of those older than himself — eh ?” 

“ I shall not answer any more of your questions,” said Philip, 
a little sulkily. 

“Well, bring your friend here, Phil, and let us judge for 
ourselves. Come, come, never mind my laughing. I dare say 
he is a very creditable acquaintance, and able to contradict his 
grandfather, and set him right in his arithmetic.” 

“ I should not think he was capable of doing any such 
thing,” answered Philip. 

“ Well, you can, my boy, if he cannot, and birds of a feather, 
you know, flock together.” 


2 * 


Henuy Lyle. 


S4 


“ Lyle is not of my feather, however, sir, and I do not admit 
the truth of that proverb you have quoted, for we generally 
find that the instances of greatest friendship have been between 
individuals of opposing qualities. Indeed ” 

“ That will do, Phil, my good fellow ; let us have no meta- 
physics, if you please. I wish young people of the present day 
would not argue everything.” 

“Or weigh everything, uncle — which is it?” said Philip, 
regaining his good humour. “ I knew you would consider it 
heterodoxy in me to question an old saw or proverb.” 

“ I think young people are very self-conceited and pedantic. 
Weigh everything ! One would think I was talking to a gro- 
cer, or — a moral philosopher,” said Mr. Leigh, laughing very 
much at his own wit. 

Philip Wilson laughed also, as the only way of ending the 
conversation, which he was afraid would grow into a dispute 
with the testy old officer, who considered that a man’s acquire- 
ments and capabilities depended entirely upon his age, and 
consequently that every man of sixty must be better calculated 
to give an opinion than one of forty would be, from # the fact of 
having lived twenty years longer in the world, however those 
twenty years had been spent. 

“Will you walk with us this evening, Philip?” asked 
Augusta of her cousin, as the men ceased their conversation, 
and there seemed to threaten a rather unpleasant silence. 

“This evening?” demanded Wilson. “I wish I could, 
Gussy ; but I am sorry to say that I have promised to go out 
with Lyle.” 


Henry Lyle. 


36 


“What a pity!” commenced Augusta ; and her father inter- 
rupted- her with — 

“ Of course you stand no chance now, Gussy ; Mr. Lyle has 
cut you out entirely. Philip must go with his friend.” 

“ Could you not bring Mr. Lyle here instead ? Papa says 
he wishes to see him. We shall get jealous, you know, if he 
keeps you away from us,” said Augusta, laughingly. 

And Philip Wilson returned, laughing also, as if the idea 
pleased him extremely : 

“ Do be jealous, Gussy, dear. I should like to quarrel, for 
the sake of making it up afterwards.” 

“ Are you so very fond of this Mr Lyle though, Philip ?” 
asked Augusta. 

“ Yes ; he is a very good fellow.” 

“ And what have you been doing all day, Mr. Phil?” pres- 
ently inquired Mr. Leigh, who had been looking at the young 
man as he conversed with Augusta, and nursed his own leg, 
after the manner of men. 

“ Oh, sir,” answered the nephew, “ I have been all the 
morning in Lyle’s studio, watchihg him paint, and talking 
philosophy.” 

Talking fiddlesticks ! ” laughed the old gentleman. “Why 
did not you occupy yourself, instead of looking at another 
man’s work ? You are an idle fellow, Phil, and try to carry 
it off with philosophy.” • 

“ Well, I am afraid I am, uncle,” said Philip Wilson, good 
humouredly. He had for years taken the fact with the same 
good humour. He did not attempt to deny it 


36 


Henry Lyle. 


Philip Wilson had been an only phild, a spoilt child, until 
the age of fifteen or sixteen, when his mother, his only remain- 
ing parent died. Since then he had been his own master. The 
money fox which his father had worked descended upon him, 
neatly arranged in columns of figures, without the slightest 
trouble or exertion. He chose to send himself to Oxford when 
he attained a suitable age ; and notwithstanding the oft-repeat- 
ed advice of his uncle and aunt, he chose to occupy his time 
in doing nothing but dream. 

It was in vain -that Mr. Leigh represented to him that his 
income, which would just keep him as a gentleman, would not 
be sufficient to maintain a wife and family, should he ever 
marry, and urged him to follow some profession, in order to in- 
crease it. Philip tried once or twice to work, but his want of 
perseverance made him throw it up, or his habitual indolence 
caused him to neglect his duty, and he returned to the ener- 
getic idleness of his daily life, in which we again now find him. 

“ Some day Til be a rich man, see if I am not,” he would 
say, laughing. “ I’ll go out to Australia, uncle, and make 
an enormous fortune, and* come back with an enormous 
beard.” 

“Not you, my fine fellow ; you would never get on in 
Australia, with your lazy habits,” Mr. Leigh would answer. 

“ Why should I work ?” the young man would ask. 

“ Because, Philip, work is your duty. We were not intended 
to be idle and useless. I have worked in my day.'”. And the old 
officer would draw himself up at the recollection, which would 
make Philip laugh again, and say : 


Henry Lyle. 


37 


“And nobody showed any gratitude for your having done so, 
my dear uncle, which is a great shame.” 

“ And what philosophy did your friend talk, Philip ?” asked 
Augusta. “ This friend of yours must he very learned and awful.” 

“ I cannot enter into the subject again, dear,” said he ; ask 
Lyle himself. My uncle would ‘ pshaw !•’ and ‘ pish !’ if I 
attempted anything of the kind.” 

“ I wish you would bring Mr. Lyle here, Philip,” returned 
Augusta. “ You are always raising our curiosity to the most 
painful height without gratifying it. I have asked you several 
times to bring him with you. Now, will you this evening ?” 

Philip Wilson looked rather oddly, and Augusta added : 

“ Have you any objection to introducing him ?” 

“ Objection ! Of course not. Well, I will try again.” He 
laughed, and then said, “ The fact is Gussy, I have tried sev- 
eral times to bring Lyle here, but he won’t come.” 

Not only Augusta, but Mr Leigh looked up in surprise, and 
the young man added : 

“Lyle is so dreadfully shy ; he will not go anywhere amongst 
strangers.” 

“ Oh, do try to bring him, Philip, said his cousin. I am 
sure he need not be afraid of coming to us. Tell him that we 
expect him here this evening. I will not speak to him if he 
looks afraid of me.” 

Philip Wilson laughed, and presently left them. 

That evening his knock was again heard at the door, and 
Augusta exclaimed, with some degree of excitement, for her life 
with her father had been hitherto so monotonous as to make a 


38 


Henry Lyle. 


fresh introduction into their circle an event of interest, “ I 
wonder if Mr. Lyle is also come !” 

Philip’s step hounded up the staircase, and another followed 
his, not so quickly, hut perhaps more firmly. Wilson threw 
open the door, and as he entered, said, “ Uncle Leigh, I have 
brought my friend, in order to make him known' to you and 
Augusta. Gussy, let me introduce Mr. Lyle.” 

Augusta curtseyed, and Mr. Leigh held out his hand to the 
young man, who bowed and stood still ; and Wilson had to rat- 
tle on in his usual way to fill up the gap in the conversation. 
Mr. Lyle said a few words about the pleasure of the new 
acquaintanceship, but it was very gravely that he did so ; and 
after a few moments, Mr. Leigh and Philip Wilson were the 
principal talkers, so that when the evening was over and their 
guests departed, Mr. Leigh observed to his daughter : 

“ Philip’s friend does not appear to have much in him.” 

“ He does not talk much, certainly,” answered Augusta, 
“but ” 

“ But what missy ?” 

“ Philip said, you remember, that Mr. Lyle is very shy.” 

“ Or very stupid, Gussy !” 

“ No, papa ; I do not think he is stupid. He does not look 
so.” 

Gussy seemed prejudiced in Mr. Lyle’s favour, for she after- 
wards, in talking of him to her cousin, was very ready to make 
excuses for his silence, and requested Philip to bring him again. 
“ Was he comfortable the other evening with us ?” she added ; 
“ did he find it stupid and dull ?” 


Henry Lyle. 


39 


“ He did not say so,” "Wilson answered. « 

“ Will he dislike coming to us again, do you think, Philip ? 
Did he say anything about my father, or about us at all ?” 

“ He did not make any remark, my dear cousin, to me about 
you, which I suppose is what you wish to know,” said Philip, 
laughing. “He does not, I believe, care generally for female 
society ; and I doubt whether he remarked even your personal 
appearance. Lyle, I am afraid, is a very rude man ; he does 
not properly appreciate the value of your charming sex, Grussy. 
Do you find him sink in your opinion ?” continued Wilson. 

“ I do not know that he ever had my opinion,” returned 
Augusta, “ so that he cannot be lowered in it. You need not 
bring him again then, if he dislikes coming.” 

Henry Lyle was a very remarkable looking man. It was 
not that either his figure or his face was perfect. He was too 
slight for bis height, and too grave looking for his years. His 
hair was light brown, and his eyes were gray ; and although 
his mouth was a beautiful one, his nose did not belong to any 
strict school of noses. Yet he was a. very remarkable-looking 
man ; and none who met the full gaze of those shy-looking 
eyes of his could help acknowledging it. His forehead was 
broad just above the brows almost to a fault, which took off 
from the oval shape of his 'face ; but the defect, if it could by 
any overstrained criticism be so called, was a good deal cor- 
rected by his hair, which grew more wildly than fashion would 
dictate. His voice was positively plaintive, but so gently so, 
that at first his hearers might not know what it was which 
arrested the attention when he spoke, and afterwards rung 


40 


Henry Lyle 


upon the ear.* In general appearance he was very graceful — 
artistic perhaps — but the effect was unstudied. He assumed 
none of the et cseteras which his profession might have 
excused, wearing neither beard, moustache, nor a turn-down 
collar. Being in dress like other men, he yet looked unlike 
them. His very modes of expression were original without in- 
tention, and remarkable from being inartificial. At the time 
we introduce him to Augusta Leigh, and bring him again 
before our readers, he was fast gaining upon his thirtieth year. 
Somehow, although men of two-and-twenty may he very inter- 
esting, it strikes us that the characters they display in 
books at that age are at times more fitted to be given to men 
of ten years older, for boys do not in real life throw off the 
moral jacket and trowsers with the corporeal schoolboy clothes 
— at least we have not often , met with such ; neither do we 
think that they are at all most interesting at a period when 
they have parted with the simplicity and innocence of child- 
hood, and not yet gained the decision and character developed 
of a man. 


Henry Lyle. 


41 




CHAPTER YI. 


Mr. Leigh did not at first seem inclined to like Philip’s 
friend ; he persisted in supposing him stupid, and in saying that 
there was nothing in him; and Lyle did not, in his action, con- 
tradict the assertion, for although he came again to Mr. Leigh’s 
house, he sat, a,s before, almost silent ; whether listening to the 
conversation of the others, or occupied with his own thoughts, 
could not be known. Bearing in mind what her cousin had 
said relative to Mr. Lyle’s want of taste, and perhaps partly 
actuated by a desire to overcome so strange an indifference, or 
by pique that such an indifference should exist at -all, several 
times Augusta strove to engage him in conversation, and then 
the gravity would roll away from his face like a cloud from 
before the sun, his countenance would become animated, and 
he was in no want of words to reply to her remarks ; but Mr. 
Leigh would presently join in, or would cease his conversation 
with Philip in order to listen to what was being said, and 


42 


Henry Lylf. 


% 

Henry Lyle would again become grave, answer more briefly, 
and then relapse into silence. 

To Augusta there was a fascination in the contrast, and she 
persisted in the opinion that Mr. Lyle was not stupid. 

Certainly she was best able to judge on the subject, Mr. 
Leigh having never spoken further than common-places to 
Lyle. 

One day, on returning from their walk, Mr. Leigh and his 
daughter heard the voices of two men in conversation as they 
aseended the stairs. 

“There is Master Phil in 'the drawing-room,” said Mr. 
Leigh, stopping, as he recognized his nephew’s voice, “but 
who the other one is I camiot, for the life of me, guess.” 

At that moment the voice of Philip’s companion was raised 
in argument, so clear and conclusive in answer to Master Phil’s 
proposition, that the old man exclaimed : 

“ That’s right ! He gives it him, does he not ?” 

“ It is Mr. Lyle,” said Augusta, in an under tone. 

“ Nonsense !” returned her father ; “ Lyle has never found 
his tongue for so long as that. Don’t tell me.” 

They ascended to the landing at the top of the stairs, and 
Mr. Leigh opened the drawing-room door gently. Lyle was 
standing with his back towards him, and not hearing his 
entrance, he continued talking earnestly and convincingly to 
Philip Wilson. When, however, shortly afterwards, he observed 
Wilson nod towards the door, he turned round suddenly, 
blushed at seeing Miss Leigh, then laughingly held out his 
hand. 


Henry Lyle. 


43 


From that moment Mr. Leigh never called Lyle stupid, and 
entertained a real friendship for him ; and strangely enough we 
would say, if anything were strange in a shy man, Henry Lyle, 
from that hour, was at his ease with the Leighs, was in their 
house constantly, spent his evenings, accompanying Philip, with 
Mr. Leigh and Augusta, and the old lieutenant began to look 
for Henry’s coming quite as much as he did for his nephew’s. 

Curiously enough, when this state of things had come to 
pass, Master Phil ceased the overweening praises which he had 
been used to give to his friend before he had introduced him to 
his uncle and cousin. He still was no less attached to Lyle ; 
but when Mr. Leigh lauded his friend’s abilities, Philip Wilson 
did not respond so readily as he might have done ; and when 
Augusta called him intellectual and agreeable, her cousin said 
“ pooh !” and told her she would not ever have thought him so if 
Lyle had not happened to have a picturesque appearance ; 
although, which was stranger still, if at another time Augusta 
called Mr. Lyle picturesque, Philip would scout the idea as in- 
tolerably absurd and amusing. Hitherto her cousin had been 
Augusta’s, only companion from her youth, excepting her 
parents, and now that she was grown to womanhood, it was 
irritating to Philip Wilson that she should appear to take so 
strong an interest in Lyle. A very strong interest Augusta 
did take in him, might have been apparent to all but to Lyle 
himself. His shyness once overcome, there was nothing like 
formality in him ; he stepped at once into the position of an old 
and intimate friend, and spoke unreservedly of his childish 
days, his first youth’s struggles, and ultimate success. Mr 


44 


Henry Lyle. 


Leigh no longer spoke slightingly of the painter’s profession, nor 
did he laugh at Henry’s philosophy, however he might at Phil- 
ip’s, and he even went so far as himself to ask permission to 
view Lyle’s studio, and when there, expressed his high satis- 
faction with all he saw. Henry Lyle was painting at the time 
that Mr. Leigh and his daughter arrived at his room, and 
Augusta thought he looked more picturesque than ever in his 
blouse and belt. After having shown his pictures, Lyle asked 
to be allowed to walk home with them, and quickly changing 
his clothes, the party being reinforced by the company of Philip 
Wilson, they set out towards Mr. Leigh’s residence. Mr. Leigh 
called to Philip as they were descending the stairs, saying he 
wished to speak to him upon some subject of interest ; and "Wilson, 
looking rather blank, gave his arm to his uncle. The look was 
not perceived by Mr. Leigh or by Augusta ; but Henry Lyle 
changed colour, and not until they had walked a few yards 
from the door, and he observed that Mr. Leigh and his nephew 
were conversing earnestly, did he offer his arm to Augusta. 

Augusta had lived alone with .her father, seeing none but 
men of her father’s standing, with no companions of her own 
age excepting her cousin, no female companions but the elderly 
wives of elderly men. To one judging as the generality judges, 
her life seemed a very dull one ; yet she had never felt it so. 
Her ignorance of society had been the cause. But as a new- 
found pleasure, she enjoyed the company of Henry Lyle. His 
ideas were fresh to her ; his was a new mind. Augusta had 
never learnt any ideas which might have made her averse to 
speaking unreservedly. In the unsophistication of her mind 


Henry Lyle. 


45 


she alluded to many things and events which, perhaps, others, 
more prudent but less open-hearted, would have condemned as 
unwise. It was in such unreserve* that she answered, in reply 
to a remark of his relative to America : 

“ I have an interest in America on account of my poor 
brother.” 

Your brother?” asked Lyle. “I did not know you had a 
brother.” 

“ I scarcely can say I have one, I fear,” she answered, “ for 
he is to us as if he were not ; we have not seen him since I 
was ten years old.” 

“ He is abroad, then?” asked Lyle, gently. 

“ He went to America many years ago ; not choosing to fol- 
low his father’s- profession, for which he was intended, and 
being unable to live on shore, he tried several things, but could 
persevere in none — a family failing, you will think-. Poor fel- 
low ! he has plenty, of natural ability, but he will not remain 
steadily at any one thing, 

“ But he is prospering now, I trust ?” said Henry Lyle. 

w He never writes to let us know of his prosperity or other- 
wise. He seems, indeed, to have severed all the ties of home. 
I have written to him several times, and begged him to write 
to his father, but can receive no answer. Papa and he, unhap- 
pily, had a disagreement before he left England, and I am 
afraid that my brother still holds ill-feeling on that account.” 

“ But you hear of him, I suppose ?” said Lyle. 

“ Yes, from others. We have met several who have known 
him ; but he never seems to care to inquire about us,” said 


46 


Henry Lyle. 


Augusta, rather sadly. Lyle did not answer, and, looking up 
in his face, she resumed : I do not know, Mr. Lyle, what makes 
me tell you all this. It must appear strange to you that I 
should speak of family dissensions to almost a stranger.” 

“I had hoped,” said he, “by the confidence you evinced 
towards me, that you did not look upon me as almost a stranger.” 

“ Nor do I, strictly speaking,” said Augusta. Being Philip’s 
friend makes you better known to us.” 

“ Do you not think,” said Lyle, “ that some are never 
strangers from the first meeting ? There is a sympathy 
between particular individuals which no years of intimacy will 
produce, and yet which may be born in five minutes.” 

“ You are always urging strange things which I have never 
thought of before,” she answered — “things which set me 
thinking. I have never heard any one talk as I have heard 
you. It seems to me as if I have hitherto lived from hour to 
hour without caring further than for the events of the present 
time, and those events only in my own circle. Philip used to 
philosophise, as papa calls it, but he never seemed to feel as 
you do.” 

“ You and Philip appear to be great friends,” said Lyle, 
rather shortly, and half interrogatively. 

“ Oh ! Philip has indeed taken the place of a brother to me. You 
can have no idea, Mr. Lyle,” said Augusta, her hazel eyes glis- 
tening, “ of the kindness of that boy ever since my childhood.” 

“ He has his reward in your affection,” answered Lyle — “ a 
reward surpassing any service a man may have been able to 
render you.” 


Henry Lyle. 


47 


“ So you say out of compliment,” said Augusta, laughing to 
counteract the gravity with which her companion’s speech had 
been made. w If you knew me better, you would not so over- 
rate the value of my affection.” 

“ I do not overrate it, Augusta,” said he, as if, and in reality, 
calling her by her Christian name accidentally. Affection can- 
not be valued. I think that any service, however hard, that a 
man could render, would be fully paid for by the grateful love of 
a fellow-creature ; for love in its strength, if not in its power, is 
all-perfect. I am speaking, you observe, merely philanthropi- 
cally. How much greater must be the reward, then, when 
coming so unrestrainedly from such a one as yourself.” 

“ Still you compliment, Mr. Lyle. I am no more than a 
fellow-creature, however you deck me out with pretty speeches. 
I only wish that love were almost all-powerful. I think the 
poetry of your own feelings makes you believe many things 
which would be hard to the generality to receive.” 

Lyle looked at her and smiled, as if he would have asked, 
“ Who is complimenting now ?” but if he so thought, he did not 
express the thought in words, but continued the former subject. 

“ Cannot love console where it cannot remove grief, so as 
almost to efface the recollection of it ?” he asked. “ Is not the 
consciousness of being loved the sweetest earthly balm whatever 
untoward circumstances may happen ? Who could not bear 
the loss of fortune patiently who could be comforted by loving 
hearts bearing it with him ? I do not speak from experience,” 
added Henry, as the remembrance of his solitary struggles rose 
before his memory, “ but I think such things must be.” 


48 


Henry Lyle. 


“ They are, no doubt, with some — not with all. Some do 
not feel the value of that sympathy you mention — are content 
to live in mutual indifference with regard to others.” 

“ Then such are much to be pitied, Miss Leigh,” said Lyle. 

“ They would not, probably, understand the reason for youi 
pity,” Augusta answered. “ They are quite happy, or eonsidei 
themselves so, which is the root of happiness, is it not ?” 

“ Impossible !” said Lyle. “ Theirs can be but negative en- 
joyment, for the absence of love and friendship must be 
absence of happiness.” 

“ Yet invariably the cold-hearted live the longest, I have 
heard,” urged Augusta. 

“ Do they so ? So do fishes live for very long, I believe,” 
said Henry, laughing, “ but who could compare their enjoy- 
ment with that of warm-blooded animals? Life were not 
worth possessing without the heart’s life — the capacity of lov- 
ing, firstly our Creator, and from Him, downwards, every 
creature He has made/’ 

“ Ay, but now are you not speaking of universal love, which 
many men would profess without being capable of loving, self- 
devotedly, one object, and which is, in many cases, although, 
of course, not in all, but a universal indifference ?” 

“ Do you then think,” asked he, “ that love must be like 
light, brought into a focus in order to bum ? Your words seem 
to infer that expansion of the heart would decrease its strength. 
No, the greater the practice of love, the greater will be its 
force. All natural capacities increase by use. The human 
heart is not a narrow cell in which one or two may be accom- 


Henry Lyle. 


49 


modated, and the rest left to indifference ; but in loving the 
whole creation, the love of particular objects is increased. We 
know our love to God should overbear all human, love ; yet 
that cannot make us shut our eyes from worldly affections. 
On the contraiy, in proportion as our love to God increases, so 
also should or will increase our love to all those whom we 
previously held dear ; and that love which you style universal, 
but which need be no weaker from its extensiveness. Man 
was sent into the world to love. He has had the great lesson of 
love taught him. Every experience of life reiterates-; and he 
who fails in cultivating the uses of the heart, fails as signally 
in his obligation as the man who neglects his soul, or permits 
the faculties of his intellect to run to waste. Am I still too 
general ?” he asked. “ Do you think that a man — Philip, for 
example — loves you the less because he may love a great many 
other persons?” 

Augusta still made no reply. She was thinking over Mr. 
Lyle’s words, so unlike what she had ever felt herself. She 
had not given to herself a reason for anything she thought. 
She was now dwelling mentally on the fact that hitherto there 
had been no pervading principle guiding her life. As she said, 
she had lived from hour to hour influenced only by passing 
events, strengthened only by outward circumstances, ready to 
be swayed by either influence, for good or evil. The good had 
come the first. 

Mr. Lyle rose in her estimation during these thoughts as a 

superior being ; as a man in God’s image, morally as well as 

physically. Her train of thought was broken in upon by 

3 


50 


Henry Lyle. 


that which in no way jarred upon it — his gentle voice 

“ Is it not so ?” he asked. 

“ It should he so, I feel,” she answered ; “ but I have never 
so thought before. Is this the philosophy of which Philip 
speaks ? Are these the kind of lessons you teach him ?” 

“ I teach him !”. repeated Lyle. Did Philip ever say I 
taught him anything ? Man learns these things unconsciously, 
it seems to me. I cannot think myself a teacher to any man 
who am still so much a learner myself.” 

“ You have taught me to-day a lesson I never knew before,” 
said Augusta ; “ to pause and apply your words to myself. My 
world has been my. father and Philip hitherto, and a very in- 
distinct future, in which occasionally to day-dream. Few men, 
I fancy, think so universally as you do.” 

“ I hope not ; else where were the philanthropists, the bene- 
factors of mankind? Were those who can dream only, or 
little more, to be the only well-wishers, the world would be in 
a desolate state indeed. There are practical preachers many, 
as well as mere advocates, Augusta. It would be a sad thing, 
indeed, if all the desire of good were with the impotent.’’ 

“ Yet, according to your lately-expressed opinion, Mr. Lyle, 
no man can be impotent who loves his fellows.” 

“ Very true ; you convict me on my own argument. Love 
can never be wasted. It is like mercy twice blest. So we who 
learn the law of love are philanthropists in anywise, never for- 
getting to grasp the opportunity should it arrive. Opportunity 
is of God, therefore they also serve who only stand and wait. 
We should not have lived in vain, had we never been enabled 


V 


Henry Lyle. 

to help on our fellow creatures with more than kind words and 
encouraging smiles. But these we are pledged to give, having 
no more, as members of the same family. We execrate broth- 
erly indifference, do we not ? and are we not all of one 
Father?” 

They reached the house as Lyle concluded, and he held out 
his hand to Augusta, haying engagements in another direction. 
Philip Wilson looked a little glum as he turned and regarded 
the two ; but he brightened up immediately upon Lyle’s making 
his adieux, and accompanying his uncle and cousin into the 
house, was very entertaining throughout the evening. 

Augusta did not feel any offence against Mr. Lyle for having 
twice called her by her Christian name. 

If any of our readers have formed an unjust idea of the per- 
sonal appearance of Augusta Leigh from previous association 
with the name, we would here undeceive them. Never has a 
name been more hardly used and more unjustly dealt with 
than the name “ Augusta,” being almost invariably given to 
characters disagreeable, haughty, imperious, and ill-natured. 
Augusta may be an amiable, loving, unaffected girl, such as 
our Augusta is. We would, if possible, redeem the name from 
the odium which almost insensibly we attach to it. We have 
known unpleasant Marys and single-hearted Augustas. 

Gussy Leigh was below the average height, slight and active, 
with affectionate hazel eyes, an abundance of dark hair, 
and very pretty features. Animated in her manners, volatile 
but not frivolous ; very fond of laughter, but beginning already 
to suspect that there was a time for all things ; a suspicion which 


52 


Henry Lyle. 


should or does generally, come upon us as we grow into men 
and women. If it has not yet done so, we had better so think 
at once, for there is not any time for delay. 

It was natural that Augusta should think over the conversa- 
tion of that afternoon with Mr. Lyle. His feelings, so simply 
expressed and so gently spoken, recurred again and again to 
her mind. “ I do not speak from experience.” She had heard 
him hint at the harshness shown to his childhood, but it had 
been lightly touched upon, sparing the author of his first trou- 
bles. She was aware that the world had not always dealt 
kindly or truly with him, and knew that the sensitive shyness 
which characterised his manners and actions had been induced 
by the rebuffs and opposition which he had already met with. 
Yet he spoke of the law of love as a law incumbent upon all ; 
as if, ever forgetting those things which were behind, he reached 
his hand daily to all that lived and suffered before him. Yet 
Augusta’s life had been one upon which the lights of affection 
had been always cast ; she knew not what harshness was ; her 
love had never been returned to her unused and unappreciated. 
All who had hitherto known her had loved her, and she had 
rested securely, as if all these things were rightfully hers. 

Had any one suggested that Augusta Leigh was selfish, all 
who knew her would have contradicted such an aspersion as 
false in the extreme ; yet of selfishness Augusta accused herself 
that evening, and justly so, in action though not in disposition. 
She had been content to be loved and to be happy, and had never 
thought that others suffered, were neglected, uncared for, and 
alone in the world. From that evening, many new thoughts 


Henry Lyle. 


too 

arose in her heart, consequent upon the words of Henry Lyle. 
The arrow had gone home, hut so gently, that even the pain 
conviction gave her made her grateful and happy, and insens- 
ibly she learnt to venerate almost the human hand which 
had been made the instrument of an angelic purpose 


54 


Henry Lyle. 



CHAPTER VII. 


Henry Lyle sat alone in his painting-room. His work had 
not much progressed that morning, yet occasionally he played 
with the brush against the margin of the canvas, apparently 
without any definite idea or intention. His thoughts had 
wandered hack to the old first days. Before his evils had 
begun, the dim shadow he remembered of his mother, whether 
placed in his heart by personal remembrance, or created by the 
picture he had seen later in childhood before his father’s 
death, he knew not. It was the first impression of woman- 
hood he had received, and it was a gentle one, though serious 
and subdued. Then the crushing of poetical associations in the 
person of his grand-aunt, Miss Lyle ; the half-contemptuous 
feeling which even as a child he felt, and which now revived 
at the recollection of Miss Wigginson, Miss Mangles, and the 
rest of that female corps ; the subserviency, the ever-ready 
appetites, the absence of opinion, the spitefulness towards each 




Henry Lyle. 55 

other. Lyle would have laughed had he felt happy. His 
comic disposition evinced itself only in the quick and half- 
unconscious sketching with the paint-brush of a profile of Miss 
Wigginson, surmounted by a cap laden with bows. 

All these were past, as in a dream. Lyle had ever shunned 
the society of women. He had long resisted Philip Wilson’s 
desire to introduce him to his uncle and cousin only because 
of Augusta ; and now he had been introduced, and had found 
neither a Miss Lyle nor a Miss Wigginson. Then why did 
Hemy Lyle sit so abstractedly ?" Why could not he continue 
his'painting, and make some use of his time ? Of what avail 
was it running back in thought over the ground already trav- 
ersed ? His past experience of female austerity and unpleas- 
antness had nothing whatever to do with the unaffected 
manners of Augusta Leigh. 

“ Well !” said a voice at his shoulder, “ and how long are 
you going to keep me waiting for a remark of some sort ? 
What has come over you, Lyle ? Is that all you have done the 
whole morning ?” 

Lyle started and blushed as his reverie was interrupted. 
Philip Wilson had entered unheard ; had stood unseen close be- 
side him ; and Lyle felt as if his friend must have read his 
thoughts, so vivid had they been to himself. 

“ Wool-gathering must be a profitable trade just at present,” 
observed Wilson, “ for wool is, I believe, fifteen shillings the 
pound. Of what have you been dreaming, my visionary friend ? 
Oh, Lyle V oh for shame !” continued he, discovering the por- 
trait of Miss Wigginson upon the canvas. “ In love ! and 


56 


Henry Lyle. 


tracing the features of the fair one. I would not have chosen 
such a red nose, though, my boy, had I been you.” 

Lyle laughed, and covered down the portrait with his brush 
so as to efface it ; and Wilson added presently : 

“My uncle was asking last night why you keep away from 
them. I am sure I had not observed that you absent yourself. 
You have gone often enough. 

“ I have not been often lately,” said Lyle, quietly. “ I hope 
your uncle is quite well ?” 

“ Oh yes ; all right.” 

Lyle was about to inquire after Augusta, but he checked 
himself, and could not have given himself a reason for so doftig. 

“ I suppose you had better go with me this evening,” added 
Philip, “ the old gentleman is so easily hurt. You do not find 
it a bore, do you ?” he added, looking wistfully at his friend. 

“ Certainly I will go,” said Lyle, as if deliberating on his 
answer. “ I should not like Mr. Leigh to think me discourteous 
or inattentive.” And the rest of that day also Henry Lyle was 
incapable of applying himself to his occupations, and angry 
with himself that it was so. When, in the evening, he entered 
Mr. Leigh’s room, Philip’s attention was for the time occupied 
with his uncle, and Lyle was not so short-sighted but he could 
see that Augusta found it difficult to conceal her pleasure at 
the sight of him. Why should she have striven to conceal it 
at all ? Propriety, we suppose, suggested such an attempt. 
Self-taught propriety, in this case,- for Augusta had never re- 
ceived staid lectures such as Miss Wigginson might have 
delivered on the subject. Henry Lyle’s heart beat irregularly 


Henry Lyle 


57 


all that evening as he sat conversing on common-place topics 
with Augusta. He was happy entirely without analysing his 
feelings ; having no wish to do so, lest he should he forced to 
dismiss them, and lose the happiness they gave him. But the 
evening came, and good night was said, and "Wilson and he 
returned home. They had to grope for a light on their arrival 
at their room, for the fire had gone out, and Philip Wilson 
seemed disconcetted by some train of thought of his own, 
and wished his friend a short good night, and left him. Lyle 
sat down upon the side of the bed instead of undressing and 
getting into it, and again fell into a reverie ; pleasant this time, 
judging from the expression of his features, which always 
showed unreservedly what was passing in his mind ; and thus 
after a time he went to sleep, throwing himself back upon the 
bed, dressed as he was, and in the morning, of course, he had 
a headache. 

That did not seem to affect his spirits, however, so that 
Wilson became quite -cross, and accused his friend of being 
incapable of anything but laughter ; which accusation Wilson 
at another time would have been the first to deny. 

“Well, I will repress my tendency to merriment since it 
seems so much to displease you, Philip ; but really I was not 
aware of the solemnity of your feelings on this particular morn- 
ing, ” said Lyle, good humouredly. 

“ I do not, as a rule, see anything so very cheering in life 
to occasion such extreme mirth,” returned Philip, putting 
sugar into his tea with grave deliberation. 

“ That depends upon a man’s temperament, my dear fellow 


58 


Henry Lyle. 


I have hardly ever yet properly had my laugh out. . Something 
is sure to check it.” 

“ Poor fellow !” said Wilson. “ Well, laugh' away.” 

“Not now ! the check has come. Listen to the clock : it is 
time for work.” And Lyle commenced vigorously at his easel, 
whistling as he painted. 

The check had come. That day, not long after his light- 
hearted laughter, Lyle suddenly pulled himself up. The morn- 
ing had flown by on wings of happiness, indulging in thoughts 
unrestrained, which tended to — what ? 

What right had he, Henry Lyle, a man working daily for his 
bread, struggling on in life, with no prospects hut from his own 
exertions, to think of these things ? True, she had received 
him with evident pleasure ; his words had <made her blush 
when no blush was called for. What had he to do with such 
things as these ? He had gone wrong already : he had erred 
in dreaming of such happiness, undefined as the dream might 
have been. He had erred — had he ? — with regard to her ? 
No ; he could not accuse himself of any such thing. He had 
wished, had striven to shun temptation, and it had been the 
night before forced upon him. He could not act rudely, and 
his manners towards Augusta had been only civil. But the 
tones, the looks, the expression of the face, were they nothing ? 
They were all ; and they Were indelibly impressed upon 
Augusta’s heart. And yet, dear Lyle, we know you could not 
have avoided them. Being in her presence, schooling of the 
features and the voice were not in your power. Were they a 
wrong ? Is there such a tiling as uninten ional wrong ? We 


Henry Lyle. 


59 


pray for the forgiveness of sins of ignorance, and yet how can 
that he sin which is done without intention ? 

It was hut a momentary dream. It must be forgotten ; it 
should he forgotten ; he could not he discourteous, and thus 
expose his own weakness. He had always laid stress on the fact 
of his poverty ; that she had known from the first. What a 
fool he was ! he argued as if there were any hope, or rather 
fear, that she cared the least about him ! 

But a dream ! and yet, Lyle, a dream may he for a life. A 
gentle heart like yours does not awake and close again its eyes 
to sleep. 

He would be strong ; he would shake off the influence, and 
forget. 

This resolution once arrived at, Henry Lyle was standing 
contemplating his picture with a very determined, hut very sad, 
countenance, seeing nothing that was in the room, when Philip 
Wilson entered. 

“Well, old fellow!” was his salutation. 

Lyle placed a hand on each of Philip’s shoulders, and 
looked at him affectionately. It was a relief to him, from his 
own constrained and painful thoughts, to hear Wilson’s kind 
voice ; and he felt inclined to love everybody particularly well 
at this moment, as some sort of compensation to his tired and 
aching heart. 

“ What has become of your high spirits of this morning, eh, 
Lyle ?” 

Lyle smiled, and shook his head. 


60 


Henry Lyle. 


“ What ! have they received the mysterious check you 
spoke of?” 

“ Yes, they are chained in abeyance for a time.” 

“ Lyle, I believe you are in love,” said Wilson, half in jest. 
He did not stay to consider his speech, but turned round the 
room, thus avoiding seeing Lyle’s face, which might have con- 
firmed his idea if it were in any way a true one, and continued 
on the same subject : “ If there is anything in Christendom 
more unpleasant than the rest, it is a man in love. If you were 
to go and get spooney, I shall cut you ; though who on earth it 
could be with, unless with the original of your caricature, I 
cannot imagine.” 

“Not much chance of that, I think,” said Lyle. 

“ A man must be such a fool to fall in love unless he can 
marry, urged Wilson ; “ it must be entirely his own fault, and 
he ought simply to be ashamed of himself.” 

“You intend never to do such a thing yourself, ] then, 
Wilson?” 

“ Not I,” said Philip. “ I look at the thing rationally.” 

“ I imagined that lovers were not supposed to be rational 
beings,” said Lyle. 

“ The generality are not. Now, were I to make a fool of 
myself by any chance, and fall in love ” 

“Well, what then?” 

“ Why, I couldn’t marry, you know, at present.” 

“ No ; but that does not always prove a safeguard,” said 
Lyle. 


Henry Lyle. 


61 


“ And so I should just look at the thing philosophically,” re> 
joined Wilson ; “ and I would get over it in a fortnight. Any 
man of determination can if he chooses. I do not myself 
believe in those life-attachments. Do you, Lyle ?” 

“ Implicitly,” replied the other. 

“ Of course you do ; hut you are such a romantic animal. I 
have no patience with you,” answered Philip Wilson. 


62 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Dating from that walk with Augusta, Mr. Lyle discontinued 
his regular visits to Mr. Leigh’s house. That gentleman was 
constant in his inquiries after him, hut Philip returned the 
same answer, that Lyle’s engagements were pressing, prevent- 
ing him from leaving home just then. One time Henry Lyle 
came for a half-hour in the evening, but testified a nervousness 
which reminded Augusta of the shyness of their first acquaint- 
ance. 

Henry Lyle, with all the ardour of his affectionate heart, so 
unused to kindness from the other sex, with his associations of 
women leaning him to the other side, had learnt to love 
Augusta. It had burst upon him as a fact before he was well 
aware what he was doing. As Philip Wilson told Augusta, 
Lyle did not seem to care for her charming sex, or rather he 
had imagined that he did not, and it was with difficulty Philip 
had induced him to accompany him to his uncle’s house. But 


Henry Lyle. 


63 


when he found Augusta, what she was to all, so open-hearted, 
unprejudiced, and unladylike, Henry Lyle discovered his heart 
indulging in illegitimate thoughts for him, and he chose the 
very unwisest hut most natural course. 

He acted like an honest and foolish man, shutting himself 
up alone with his own recollections; for who, the strongest- 
hearted amongst us, can hid defiance to thoughts when they 
come in the disguise of friends, and look so very innocent ? 
His poetical mind exaggerated his own feelings, and without 
Augusta’s presence— having fled from her to avoid temptation 
— Henry Lyle, with his philosophy and self-arguments, became 
a lover. 

Again, Philip Wilson was Augusta’s constant companion , 
hut the charm of her home was gone. A dullness which she 
had never known before began to make itself felt. She had 
learnt to look for greater pleasure than the society of her father 
and Philip alone, and she felt as if a blank had come upon her 
usual employments, because Henry Lyle’s gentle voice was not 
there to remark upon what passed, to moralise where others 
would only gossip. Yet Augusta, had she been accused of 
such regrets, would' have felt the blood up in arms upon her 
cheeks to refute the accusation. Still Mr. Leigh complained 
frequently of Lyle’s absence, accusing him of rudeness, want of 
attention, all sorts, of things which the old gentleman did not 
really mean, and sent to Lyle messages by Philip to such effect. 
Whether these messages were all faithfully delivered we know 
not. 

One day after a tirade against Lyle had been delivered on 


64 


Henry Lyle. 


the part of Mr. Leigh, Augusta added to her father’s accusation 
a message from herself to Henry Lyle, asking him to come and 
see Mr. Leigh, who felt his prolonged absence as a personal 
unkindness. That evening Henry Lyle accompanied Philip. 

“ And so you have come at last !” exclaimed Mr. Leigh, as 
Henry entered, rather shyly. The old man had intended to be 
cool and displeased in his manner, in order to show his disap- 
probation, but when he again saw his young friend, he with- 
drew the hand which, upon his entrance, he had put behind 
his back, so as to place it put of temptation, and warmly shook 
that of Henry. “ And pray what may be this business which 
keeps you so occupied as to prevent you ever coming near us 
now ?” 

“ I have a rather pressing order,” answered Lyle blushing, 
which I am desirous of executing without delay.” 

“ An order which I suppose occupies your nights as well as 
days, and prevents your ever dropping in for a few minutes to 
have a chat with an old friend.” 

Mr. Leigh forgot for the moment that Henry Lyle and he 
were not very old friends, as the usual meaning is. 

“ However,” he continued, “ I am glad you have thought 
better of it. Here have been Gussy and I very dull for want 
of you, Phil has no wits to keep one alive.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” ejaculated Philip. 

“ Have not we, Gussy ?” inquired her father. 

Augusta had walked to the window as Henry Lyle, unex- 
pectedly to her, entered. She had felt inclined to cry when she 
first saw him, which was very absurd ; and Henry curiously 


Henry Lyle. 


65 


enough, had seemed to have forgotten her presence by his not 
speaking to her, which was very rude on his part. 

“ Have not you been very dull without Lyle ?” asked Mr. 
Leigh. 

“ I have wished for him very much, papa, for you have 
always been regretting his absence,” Augusta said ; and con- 
gratulated herself afterwards upon the presence of mind she 
had displayed in her answer. 

Cousin Philip became uninteresting and difficult to please at 
this juncture, so that Mr. Leigh’s foregoing accusation was more 
deserved that evening than it had been in reality before. He 
fidgeted from place to place, and after some time remembered 
that he had an engagement in some other part of town, and 
saying he would call in later in the* evening, took his hat, 
which he knocked upon his head somewhat spitefully, and left 
the house. 

The light passed away, and candles came ; but Mr. Leigh 
would not hear of Henry’s going. Tea was brought, and 
Augusta took her place at the table. She was still very silent 
for her who was generally so lively and talkative, and her 
father laughed at her as the tea-things were removed, rallying 
her on her low spirits. 

“ Fetch your guitar, my dear, and sing to us,” said he. 

Henry Lyle rose and reached the instrument for her, reitera- 
ting Mr. Leigh’s request. But Gussy did not sing so well as 
usual that night. Her voice was plaintive, and she selected, 
almost unconsciously, songs which struck mournfully upon the 


ear. 


66 


Henry Lyle. 


Henry Lyle had several times before heard Augusta sing, 
and always, as now, had listened with almost breathless atten- 
tion to every note ; now, he looked at her for some moments as 
she sang, hut gradually turned his face another way, until he 
seemed occupied with gazing at the tablecloth, and at length 
shaded his eyes with his hand* She was singing “ Home, 
sweet home.” 

Augusta ceased, and, checking a sigh which rose to her lips, 
laid the guitar aside. Mr. Leigh cleared his voice before he 
observed, 

“We are none of us very gay company to-night. What 
makes you choose, such doleful ditties, little woman ?” 

“ Shall I sing something more lively, father ?” said Augusta. 

“ No, my dear ; I fancy I prefer the mournful ones. Come, 
Lyle— you know everything — what makes me prefer the mel- 
ancholy songs to the merry ones — eh ?” 

“ The only reason I can suggest, sir,” answered Henry, “ is 
that the mournful music accords best with the melancholy feel- 
ing which all music awakens in the heart or memory.” 

“ Why should the feeling which accompanies music have 
always a tincture of mournfulness ?” asked Augusta. 

“ A tincture of regret, or of desire for something we have 
not ?” added Mr. Leigh. 

“ It seems to argue either man’s former purity, or the purity 
to which he is hereafter to attain,” said Lyle, “ that so pure a 
pleasure as listening to music should dash his spirit with regret 
or longing. If you notice, Augusta, in all enjoyments of this 
world there is the same imperfection; as if we felt ourselves 


Henry Lyle. 


67 


capable of appreciating a greater extent. It sometimes occurs 
to me that every innate feeling of the human breast proves the 
immortality of man, if man would but perceive it.” 

“Ay, if man would but perceive it,” answered Mr. Leigh. 
He sighed, and then laughed rather awkwardly, adding, “ It is 
as well for me that Master Phil is not here, or he would accuse 
me in his turn of philosophising. I should not dare to do so in 
his presence ; but there are times, Lyle, when a man seems 
forced against his will to moralise and reflect.” 

Augusta left her seat and placed herself upon a footstool 
near her father, and he drew her towards him, so as to lay her 
head upon his knee. They were all silent for some moments, 
and then the old lieutenant observed : 

“ I have been thinking several times lately, Lyle, that I 
ought to make my will. I should not like to die and leave my 
child without a penny, as she would be as now it stands ; for 
although I have little enough to leave, Heaven knows, yet that 
little should "be G ussy’s, rather than go to those who never 
cared for me.” 

This was an allusion to his absent son, Lyle was aware, and 
he passed it over saying, 

“ I cannot understand any man delaying in making his will. 
It were surely better, under whatever circumstances, to be pre- 
pared. What that feeling is which prompts delay I confess I 
never could comprehend.” 

“ Why, you see, a will is not a pleasant thing to think of,” 
said Mr. Leigh. 

“ Why not, sir ?” asked Henry. “ It seems really as if men 


68 


Henry Lyle. 


imagined that the act of will-making is a species of suicide, 
from the averseness some entertain towards it.” 

Mr. Leigh laughed, for he was aware that some such feeling 
as the young man quoted had hitherto actuated himself, and he 
laughed to avert suspicion ; yet he added, honestly, 

“ It is a very foolish objection, certainly ; hut one pretty gen- 
eral, Lyle. I am afraid I have been wrong in delaying 
making my will. But I will not put it off longer ; we never 
know what may take place ; I will see about it at once. I will 
make it to-morrow.” 

To-morrow ! It is the loophole for us all. Hitherto I have 
lived for myself only, concentrating all my energies upon the 
present time ; but I will be unselfish and liberal-minded to-mor- 
row. I have quarrelled and acted offensively, but to-morrow 
I will be lenient. I have given way to all my evil passions, 
but I will exercise control over them to-morrow. To-morrow 
shall see me better, wiser, more Christian, more what God 
requires of me — and to-morrow shall see me saying, as I say 
to-day, “ I will be all this to-morrow !” 


Henry Lylf. 


6Q 


CHAPTER IX. 


So Mr. Leigh put away the thoughts of making his will 
until the following day, and spoke of other things. 

There was a vein of thoughtfulness, almost sad thoughtful- 
ness, threading throughout the conversation of that evening. 
To the surprise of Augusta more than of Lyle, Mr. Leigh 
mentioned his son. It was a subject which for years he had 
never touched upon, and which, when alluded to by others, 
brought a cloud over his brow ; hut now he spoke of that son’s 
quarrel with himself, and subsequent neglect, as of an event 
passed, and with perfect mildness and simple regret that such 
things had been. The conversation brought back the days of 
old, when Valentine and Augusta had been childrens and Mr. 
Leigh suddenly expressed his intention of going up-stairs in 
order to fetch some portraits taken at an early age, which, 
with the fondness of a parent, he had kept, but which, with 


70 


Henry Lyle. 


the indignation of a parent, he had locked up, because the face 
of the prodigal Yal was side by side with Gussy ’s. 

Henry Lyle and Augusta were left alone, for Mr. Leigh ve- 
hemently declined any assistance, with some of the slight 
affront which elderly people take if they do not happen to be 
quite so strong as they think they should be at their age. 

There was a dead silence following the departure of Mr. 
Leigh. Augusta listened to her father’s footsteps with a species 
of awe for which she could not account, and Lyle from time to 
time looked up from the table, fixing his eyes upon her face, as 
if he partook of her indefinable anxiety. Mr. Leigh did not re- 
turn with the portraits, and Augusta saying she would follow 
and assist him in his search, moved towards the door. 

At the same moment a dull noise, like the fall of a heavy 
body, was heard, and Augusta turned deadly pale, and with the 
handle of the door still in her hand, regarded Lyle with a 
countenance in which terror and entreaty were blended. He 
took her hand from where it was placed, and passing out 
before her, ran up the stairs to Mr. Leigh’s bedroom. Augusta 
looked after him for a few moments, as if anxiety had bereft 
her of motion, and then suddenly exerting herself equal to the 
occasion, she followed on the footsteps of Lyle, and arrived at 
her father’s door. 

Mr. Leigh was lying on the ground, from whence Lyle was 
attempting to raise him, and was senseless. 

Augusta did not make any exclamation of surprise ; she felt 
as if she had expected this ; but she asked of Lyle, in an under 
tone, “ Is he dead ?” 


Henry Lyle. 


71 


Henry placed his hand upon the insensible man’s pulse, and 
then opened his vest, so as to feel the heart, and looked -sor- 
rowfully at Augusta. 

The poor girl knelt down hy the side of her dead father, and 
gazed intently in his face ; then burst into a passion of tears, 
while Lyle trembled with emotion as he saw her, hut said 
nothing. Still Augusta continued weeping, with difficulty 
controlling herself so as not to shriek hysterically — and Lyle, 
with some effort, raised the dead body of Mr. Leigh, and placed 
it upon the sofa. Then he went to Augusta, and forgetting all 
hut that she was unhappy, and that he longed to comfort her, 
he poured into her ear his earnest sympathy and desire to alle- 
viate the loss which she had sustained. Augusta Leigh still 
wept convulsively, hut she listened with attention to what 
Henry said. His words were of her father only, his endeavours 
alone to raise her thoughts from the outward show of death to 
the reality of a new lease of life ; and yet though the subject 
was never mentioned by him, in that hour Lyle told his love. 

"When Philip Wilson called in shortly afterwards, he was vi- 
olently shocked hy what had happened. He was warmly 
attached to Mr Leigh, and it renewed the grief of Augusta to 
see the impassioned outburst of regret which he exhibited at 
sight of the dead body of his uncle. She looked at Lyle, as if 
actually turning to him for fresh consolation — a look which 
sent the blood rushing through the veins of Henry .in a very 
bewildering manner. 

Philip’s grief was too tumultuous to last : before long he 
was sufficiently calm to accompany Augusta down stairs, in 


72 


Henry Lyle. 


order to strive to devise what next was to be done. It was an 
awkward position for a young girl, alone with two men, who, 
however she might look upon Philip Wilson as a brother, were 
no unscandalous protectors to her. 

Lyle proposed that Augusta should be taken thence that 
evening, trusting all things which were to follow to himself 
and Philip ; but Augusta objected to this proposal, choosing 
rather to remain with her father’s body to the last. Philip 
therefore suggested that a female friend of Mr. Leigh’s, widow 
to one of his former messmates, should be desired to spend the 
few following days with her old friend’s child. 

This proposal was rather bright on the part of Philip Wilson 
more so than might have been expected. Both Lyle and 
Augusta agreed to this, and Philip, whose spirits had begun to 
recover from the violent depression they had suffered, kissed 
his cousin and set out at once in order to call upon Mrs. 
Seymour. 

That lady was a woman of a kind heart, and attached to 
Mr. Leigh and his daughter. Philip Wilson, therefore, had no 
difficulty in procuring her compliance with his request, made 
in a strange manner, and at a very strange hour of the eve- 
ning ; but Mrs. Seymour had been accustomed, as a sailor’s 
wife, to rough life in many respects, and, full of commiseration 
for the helpless state of poor Leigh’s child, with her eyes full 
of tears she packed up some necessaries, and at once accompa- 
nied Philip back to the house over which Death had cast his 
irresistible gloom. 

The funeral took place, and Mrs. Seymour carried Augusta 


Henry Lyle. 


73 






with her to her own house. Many doubting thoughts had trou- 
bled the mind of the poor girl, and not fewer that of Henry 
Lyle as to where was to he her next destination. 

Mrs. Seymour was not rich, but she was without husband 
and without children of her own, and it appeared to her no 
great thing that she should for a short time supply the place 
of a parent to her friend’s child. Augusta’s grief for her 
father’s loss was at first very gentle, and she turned with 
affection to the friend who sought to alleviate it by every effort 
of attention and kindness. 

For some days she sat actually indifferent, to all appear- 
ances, answering all the remarks made to her, returning the 
caresses of Mrs. Seymour, and giving way to no useless lam- 
entations and regrets. It was not until she was dressed in 
mourning, her father’s body was taken from her, and herself 
removed to Mrs. Seymour’s house, that it seemed really to 
break upon her in all its force that her father was gone. She 
had no longerthe affectionate face of her cousin Philip to look 
into, she did not hear daily the familiar voice of Henry Lyle, 
rebuking by its very calmness any violent ebullition of grief ; 
alone, she wept passionately, in pity of herself, as she would 
catch sight of her liftle figure reflected in the glass, dressed in 
mourning, and looking very pale indeed. At the same moment 
would rise the thought, What did Henry Lyle now think of 
her ? Did he ever think of her at all ? "Would he pity her 
did he see her ? Her late intercourse with him seemed shadowy 
and unsubstantial like a dream, the thoughts which he had 

brought upon her overwrought ; for the great occurrence of 

4 


74 


Henry Lyle. 


her father’s death seemed to throw all previous things far in 
the background of life. And Henry Lyle all this time was 
brooding over the late events, hourly renewing the as often 
broken resolution, to be wise and to overcome himself. And 
yet the determination, made in the day of Augusta’s happiness, 
seemed more than ever useless now, with the recollection of 
her grief, her appealing looks for comfort to himself, her present 
comparatively desolate position. One moment, duty itself 
seemed to suggest that he ought to be near herj the next, 
prudence insisted on his absence. “Am I then so weak?” 
asked he of himself. And the answer was not satisfactory. 
So Lyle acted with civility alone towards Augusta, gave her 
more pain than she would have acknowledged to herself, and 
brooded over every word and look of hers when absent from 
her. 

This course of action very much displeased his friend. In 
fact, the change which had come over Lyle’s manner and ap- 
pearance of late had for some time produced uneasiness and 
disquiet on the part of Wilson, and was the not unfrequent sub- 
ject of his questions and remarks; so, during one evening, when 
he found himself alone with his friend, and Henry had been 
vacantly gazing into the fire — for love is most dreadfully idle — 
unaware that Wilson was watching him attentively, the latter 
commenced the subject by saying : 

“ Well, Lyle, what are you thinking of now ? What is the 
use of your holding a book in your hand which I could take 
my affidavit you have never looked into more than once. What 
is there so interesting, my good man, in those coals ?” 


Henry Lyle. 


75 


“ I was thinking,” replied Lyle, abstractedly. 

“ That is always the answer I receive,” said the other. “‘I 
was thinking' as if you had all the cares of the nation on your 
mind.” 

“ I think every man has cares enough of his own to set him 
musing, Philip.” 

“ And I suppose I must not too curiously inquire the partic- 
ular cares which now oppress you ? Take my advice, Lyle, 
never get into the habit of day-dreaming — you are too much 
addicted to it.” 

“I am afraid the habit is constitutional,” said Henry, “ and 
too deeply rooted to be given up.” 

“ But such impenetrable and very unsociable silence is not 
constitutional, and is quite inexcusable, excepting to a man in 
love,” said "Wilson, laughingly. The expression of his face 
changed, however, quickly, as he saw the sudden effect his last 
words had upon Lyle, whose countenance could never conceal 
his feelings. He coloured painfully, and rose from his seat, as 
if to avoid meeting Philip’s glance, and walking to the window, 
locked out at the night. 

Philip felt annoyed with himself that he had spoken so 
thoughtlessly, and wondered if by any possibility there could be 
a reason for Lyle’s feeling his words. When the latter returned 
to his seat, Wilson, with the freedom of daily companionship, 
resumed : 

“ I hope I did not say anything to offend you, Lyle ?” 

“ Offend me ! indeed no. I am not so easily offended. Your 
words pained me ; but you did not intend it,” answered Lyle. 


76 


Henry Lyle. 


And Philip Wilson wondered more than before. He would 
have liked to have asked an explanation, but felt a delicacy in 
doing so, knowing that there are some subjects which cannot 
be questioned, but where the confidence must be voluntary or 
not at all. 

Henry Lyle continued for some moments still looking in the 
fire ; then he raised his eyes and fixed them on his friend’s 
face, saying : 

“ You have several times accused me of being in love, 
whether in jest or earnest I cannot tell. To you, as a philos- 
opher in such things ,” added Lyle, slightly smiling, “ such a 
confession of feeling will of course appear ridiculous ; and yet I 
cannot deny it — I am in love.” 

Philip Wilson looked so strangely at his companion for a few 
moments — such a mixture of surprise, sympathy, and fun — 
that Lyle said : “Well, have your laugh out, if you think it a 
laughing matter.” 

“ I am not going to laugh,” said Wilson. “ I am all aston- 
ishment to think who it can be with, unless it is the laundress ; 
in which case I am afraid it will be a hopeless passion, for I 
know her to be married, and the mother of twelve children.” 

Lyle made no answer, and Philip said, after a pause, “ You 
have never mixed much in ladies’ society Lyle.” 

“And therefore was the more vulnerable, perhaps,” rejoined 
the other. 

Suddenly a new light seemed to burst upon Wilson’s mind, 
but it did not shed a radiance over his countenance, for his 
brows contracted, his eyes flashed, and he bit his under lip. 


Henry Lyle. 


77 


Yet he turned his face away from his friend, and when he 
spoke to him again it was without any outward signs of 
emotion. 

“ I should think,” said he, “ that you hardly have had the 
assurance to fall in love with my cousin Augusta?” He 
waited for no answer — there was no need of one on Lyle’s 
part — and Philip Wilson started up to leave the room. “Wait 
Philip !” called out Lyle. And though Wilson had no inten- 
tion of complying with his request the first time it was made, 
somehow he had not descended many stairs when the repetition 
of his name made him pause, and he re-entered Lyle’s room, 
saying, “ Well ?” 

“Is it so unpardonable an offence to love when love was 
forced upon me ? Have I been guilty of such great assurance 
as you termed it in committing an involuntary act ? A man 
like myself does not set himself determinedly to love, and feel 
a fool for having done so. Do you think, Philip, that it is 
such a pleasant position to find my peace of mind gone, 
without consent or volition of my own, and nothing — nothing 
left me but the memory of a foolish dream I made, only to 
force myself to abandon as an honest man, and the conscious- 
ness of being an object of pity instead of sympathy ?” 

Philip Wilson sat down again where he had been before. 

“ I can understand,” continued Lyle, “ that you, feeling the 
affection of a brother for your cousin, may for a moment be 
indignant at what you think presumption on my part. But I 
have not been presumptuous, Philip. I have never let Au- 
gusta know that any such thoughts have taken place in my mind. 


78 


Henry Lyle. 


I have at least suffered in silence hitherto. Am I to blame that 
these things are so ? I say not. She is sufficient excuse for 
the feelings which rose spontaneously. I am accountable only 
for the use of them. Have I wronged her, or shall I wrong 
her, by loving her ? Love can be but an honour and a blessing 
to the object of it, whether appreciated or not. Neither am 
I ashamed in thus confessing that I love, as the world would 
call it, unwisely and unfortunately The world’s wisdom and 
the wisdom of the heart, Philip, cannot agree. There is .no 
shame in real love. It would be an insult to the object of it.” 

“ I was wrong,” said Philip Wilson. “ My dear Lyle, I beg 
your pardon ; you are the best fellow in the world.” He held 
out his hand, and looked sincerely into the face of Lyle with his 
honest eyes. 

“It would never have done to have quarrelled with my 
friend when I should most have needed his friendship,” said 
Lyle, again taking Philip by the shoulders as he had that 
morning of the caricature, which circumstance brought back tc 
Wilson’s mind, by the natural chain of thought, the events of 
that day ; and, as usual, his love of nonsense rose above con- 
tending feelings, as he said : 

“So it is not the lady with the red nose, after all.” 


Henry Lyle. 


79 


CHAPTER X. 


If kindness could have obliterated the remembrance of grief, 
Augusta would have forgotten her loss under the affectionate 
solicitude and sympathy of Mrs. Seymour. The memory of 
her father soon became a settled memory only, tinged with 
moumfulness indeed,* as all grief must ever be in recollection, 
but she ceased to weep his actual loss, as the interest of present 
life rose before her. 

Philip Wilson visited them constantly, and was, as usual, 
unremitting in his kindness. Augusta had hoped that another 
than Philip would have cared for her ; but Henry Lyle came 
not to Mrs. Seymour’s house. Augusta felt hurt at this appa- 
rent indifference, and consequently sent no messages of invita- 
tion to Philip’s friend. 

Lyle was playing no part of indifference ; but was all this 
time struggling with himself to forget what had been, and to 


Henry Lyle. 


t>C 

reconcile his heart to what seemed to him the fact of Philip’s 
and Augusta’s mutual attachment. 

Valentine Leigh’s attorney had called upon Augusta, and had 
had an interview with Philip on behalf of his client, who, with 
wonderful coolness, was content to take possession of every- 
thing left by Mr. Leigh, without seeming to care what might 
be the future of his sister, although the lawyer was pleased 
politely to compliment Augusta upon the kind interference of 
Mrs. Seymour. 

Augusta’s pale looks, and occasionally swollen eyelids, were 
laid by her friend to the very natural cause — her father’s 
death — and she tried by every gentle argument to induce the 
heart of the young girl, to whom she was really becoming 
attached, to look forward with the hopefulness of youth. 

Yet Henry Lyle could not in common civility absent him- 
self altogether from the society of one with whom he had been, 
at one time, so intimately thrown. So, after a great deal of 
self-schooling, and having determined in his own mind that he 
was entirely fortified against any new temptations of conflicting 
thoughts, he called one afternoon. His heart sank as he 
reached the drawing-room door, and heard the voice of Philip 
Wilson audible above that of Augusta ; but such heart-sinkings 
Lyle had already inwardly condemned as folly, and he entered 
almost immediately afterwards, thinking he looked and felt 
remarkably collected and indifferent. Henry Lyle, perhaps, 
was too much occupied with his own feelings at the moment, 
to interpret any emotion which Augusta might have evinced. 
The visit was paid, gone through calmly enough, and came 


Henry Lyle. 


81 


an end, and Henry sighed as if relieved as the hall-door closed 
upon him, and he was again in the open air. 

Philip Wilson was precipitate in all his resolutions, as he 
was impulsive in his disposition, and that same evening he 
walked into Lyle’s room, and taking a chair opposite to where 
his friend was sitting, without prelude commenced : 

“ I have something to tell you, Lyle.” 

Henry pushed away the hook which had been before him 
for the last hour, unread, and most reprehensibly turned down 
the leaf as he did so, then raised his eyes towards Philip with a 
look of careless inquiry, as if he expected, as usual, some very 
trivial information to be given. 

“ I have, to-day,” began Philip, “ seen that, which, at the 

same time that it has made me ” He stopped, hesitated, 

and then proceeded. “ I have been forced into a determination 
to-day, Lyle. I cannot live on any longer in this idle, good- 
for-nothing manner. I shall go abroad — to America.” 

“ And Augusta?” asked Henry, as if in that question was 
comprehended every objection which could be raised against 
Philip’s determination. 4 

Young Wilson changed the leg which he had crossed, and 
twitched his face ; but the room was not very light, and Lyle 
was a little shortsighted, and presently he answered: 

“You will take care of Augusta, Lyle, will you not? It 
is of no use your trying to conceal from me that you would 
willingly take the trust ” — for Lyle flushed, and looked as if 
about to remonstrate — “ any more than she can hide that she 
would choose you for a protector, eh ?” 

A* 


82 


Henry Lyle. 


Henry Lyle rose from his seat, and walked anxiously up and 
down the room. He did not speak for some minutes ; when 
he did, it was in a low and agitated voice. 

“ Are you sure you are speaking with foundation, Philip ?” 
said he. “ Do not, I entreat you, my friend, imbue me with 
false hopes on such a subject. I should not know how to bear 
fresh disappointment.” 

“ There is no doubt of it,” Philip answered. “ Augusta 
treats me as a brother, you are aware. I spoke to her on the 
subject this morning.” 

The young man seemed to say so much in reply to his 
friend’s look of appeal ; hut he added, quickly, “ I must go — I 
am tired. G-ood night.” 

“ Stop !” exclaimed Henry, who was incapable as yet of 
entirely comprehending all that Philip had presented to him. 
“ Do speak to me calmly. Tell, me more.” 

“ What would you have more, man ?” said Wilson, in a 
louder voice than decorum would have dictated. But he soon 
recollected himself, and holding out his hand to Lyle, who still 
looked bewildered, said : 

“ Let me go now, Lyle ; I am tired, and not very well. I 
will speak to you to-morrow. Good night, my good fellow.” 

Poor Wilson’s fatigue did not send him to sleep, however, 
any more than Lyle’s excitement. Both lay awake for many 
hours, and perhaps Philip would not have acknowledged on 
the following morning how often the bed-clothes were crammed 
into his eyes to dry tears which mingled disappointment 


Henry Lyle. 


83 


wounded vanity, and perhaps not entirely imaginary love, 
made him shed. 

Philip’s explanation on the ensuing morning was honest and 
almost unembarrassed, and Lyle was unobservant of any con- 
straint there might have been in his friend’s manner. 

But with Lyle ? "What had become of the late persuasion 
that had taken possession of his mind that Augusta loved her 
cousin? His head was all bewildered. He onee or twice was 
on the point of starting the objection to Philip himself, but it 
seemed ridiculous now, and he let the subject rest. 

“ But,” urged he, as the old arguments rose in his mind, 
“ while I am selfishly congratulating myself upon what you 
say, I ought rather to lay reproach to my own heart for having 
ever become acquainted with Augusta, for, Philip, you know 
my position.” 

“Well,” returned the other, “and Augusta knows it too. 
At any rate, you have never represented yourself in false 
colours.” 

“ I am a very poor man,” said Lyle, “ and it would be 
wrong to allow her, even if she would, to ” 

“ I was not aware that you were in such a starving condi- 
tion as that, I must say,” said Wilson, half smiling. “ You 
can live by your own exertions, and have the will and power 
to work. I think that is a very good heritage to begin upon. 
I wish I could say as much of myself.” 

“ If I continue having the power to work,” objected Lyle ; 
“ but who knows ? Were I unable to work, what then ?” 

“ And who is going to disable you ?” 


84 


Henry Lyle. 


“We must think of these possibilities, you now, Philip.” 

“ Exactly. I had no idea you could talk with such worldly 
foresight and prudence,” answered Wilson. 

“ Prudence is a quality I have never been accused of before 
in my life, and I do not know now whether to take your speech 
as a compliment or an insult,” said Lyle, gravely. 

“ According to what importance you attach to the informa- 
tion I gave you last night unasked, that a girl worth a dozen 
such as you has been fool enough to make herself unhappy 
about you?” 

“ What can I do ?” asked Lyle. 

“Would it be better, do you think, Lyle, for Augusta to 
marry a man she loves, putting you out of the question, who 
may happen to be poor, than live worse than poor, being 
dependent, without him ?” 

“ She might regret it afterwards. She might fall out of 

love with rqy poverty. She might ” He hesitated, and 

after a pause resumed : “I was going to say that she might 
learn to love one with happier prospects than I.” 

“ What a fool you are, Lyle !” ejaculated Philip. 

“ Thank you,” answered the other; “but I do not see the 
point of your remark.” 

“ Which the more proves its truth. You have been given the 
only thing you required to make you happy, and you grumble 
at it.” 

“ I do not indeed. I am most grateful to hear what you 
have told me. 


Yes, you seem so, and look so.” 


Henry Lyle. 


85 


“ I will act as if I felt so,” answered Lyle. “ I will work 
myself to death sooner than she should feel the evils of 
poverty.” 

“ I do not think that would assist matters, nor that Augusta 

would thank you for taking such a course. However ” 

And Philip relapsed into silence, as so many do, with that con- 
cluding word, leaving whole pages of ideas to the listener’s 
imagination. 

Henry Lyle’s interview with Augusta was that of a straight- 
forward man. He explained the mistake he had made, touch- 
ing but slightly upon the distress it had caused him. He 
reiterated what he had in the morning said to Philip ; but 
Augusta could not see the great misfortune of being poor, and 
seemed perfectly satisfied with their prospects. Mrs. Seymour 
was delighted because two young people seemed happy. 
There was but one drawback — her favourite Philip’s determi- 
nation to leave England ; and yet both she and Augusta could 
not but agree in the good sense of the resolution. 

It seemed sudden, and Philip appeared in a violent hurry to 
bring his arrangements to a conclusion ; but he was known to 
be impetuous and hasty in all his actions, and this did not cre- 
ate surprise. 

All who knew Philip, and Augusta especially, had always 
regretted his indolent mode of life, and she admired him for 
his sudden desire for exertion and travel. None dreamt of the 
true reason which lay at the bottom of all. Philip strove in 
employment to forget the annoyance, and learnt, at least, the 
real object of labour — mental health, 


86 


Henry Lyle. 


In the truest sense he “looked at the thing philosophically,” 
although philosophy could not teach him to forget. 

If Philip Wilson’s mirth was more eccentric and uncertain 
than before — if he sighed at the conclusion of a laugh, and fell 
into reveries to which he had been unused — all laid his altera- 
tion of manner to the loss of his uncle, or his regret, naturally, 
at leaving what had been his home. All who knew him were 
attached to him, careless fellow though he seemed ; and Mrs. 
Seymour claimed him personally as her property, calling him 
“ her boy,” and taking upon herself the care of his outfit before 
leaving England. Lyle could not quite understand why Philip, 
upon whom he had always looked as a friend, and whose afiec- 
tion he had never doubted, should so often lately assure him 
that he loved him, and shake hands so warmly and so 
frequently. 

Poor Philip ! he almost doubted his own heart ; he did not 
know what an honest and manly heart it was. 


Henry Lyle, 


87 


CHAPTER XI. 


The Miss Delavilles were two in number, of the ages of 
thirty and thirty-two ; still calling themselves girls, very enthu- 
siastic, and becoming more so yearly ; unboundedly affection- 
ate in their manner from the first introduction. 

Augusta thought these ladies very kind and amiable, for 
they both kissed her fondly the first time they saw her, and 
called her by her Christian name at once. It struck Augusta 
that the Miss Delavilles repeated too frequently for strict good 
manners that they thought her “ sweetly pretty,” and admired 
too openly in her presence her figure, her face, her singing, her 
playing — in fact, everything she did. But it is very pleasant 
to be praised and to be thought pretty ; and Gussy had been so 
unused to flattery, that suspicion of the truth of the Miss Dela- 
villes, opinions never occurred to her. 

They invited her to their house, where she spent at first 
hours, then days, until the Miss Delavilles were so inexpressibly 


88 


Henry Lyle. 


charmed with their new friend, that they entreated Mrs. 
Seymour to allow Augusta to spend a week or more at their 
house ; and Mrs. Seymour, ever kind in furthering what she 
thought would conduce to others’ pleasure, gave a willing 
assent. Besides, Mrs. Seymour, in her honest simplicity, held 
a species of reverence for the ladies with whom she had unac- 
countably become acquainted. Their ideas, manners, and way 
of living were so much grander than hers had ever been, or 
those she had ever imagined, that in so far as she could not 
understand them, she respected and wondered. Augusta saw 
and heard many strange things, such as she thought Lyle 
would not quite like ; and several times, upon going to her 
room at night, she felt wearied and restless during this visit. 

But the Miss Delavilles were acquainted with Henry Lyle ; 
and when he was there Augusta was happy. The ladies 
expressed screaming surprise the first day Lyle came and they 
discovered that he and Augusta were well known to each 
other. 

“Oh, for shame ! never to telL us. Oh, you little sly thing ! 
And, Mr. Lyle, you are a wicked, deceitful, charming man.” 

Augusta felt quite nervous at the suddenness of the attack, 
and had no desire to communicate to the Miss Delavilles at 
that time that there was a closer tie subsisting between herself 
and Lyle than that of mere friends. 

These ladies seemed never tired of speaking, in Lyle’s pres- 
ence, of Lyle’s own productions, which struck Augusta as bad 
taste, and which appeared irksome to Henry himself, making 
him at times impenetrably silent, until Augusta spoke to him. 


Henry Lyle. 


89 


It so occurred that during the first days of Augusta’s visit 
Mrs. Seymour received a summons into the country, to attend 
the death-bed of a friend, and the Miss Delavilles eagerly seized 
the opportunity of entreating a prolongation of Augusta’s stay 
with them, to which Mrs. Seymour gladly agreed. "When 
Henry heard the arrangement he looked a little grave, hut said 
nothing. 

If the continual touching of one note had been wearisome to 
Augusta, the time was arrived when it was to change. Henry 
Lyle’s ovations were at an end. 

One morning the elder Miss Delaville looked up from the 
paper, exclaiming to her sister : 

“ Bella ! here’s charming news. Mr. Vere is in town.” 

“ Miss Bella gave a little scream of pleasure, and Augusta 
asked who Mr. Vere might he. 

“ Bless you, child ! — Vere the author. Such a sweet man ! 
Oh ! such a dear creature ! Such eyes !” And Miss Bella 
fell into silent raptures over the remembrance of Mr. Vere’s 
eyes. 

“ I hope he will come to us without delay,” said Miss Dela- 
ville. “ We must really, Bella, go this very day and call on 
dear Mrs. Vere — such a sweet creature, Augusta — his mother. 
Mamma ” — for there was a Mrs. Delaville, although she was 
not of much consequence in the house — “ we must ask Mr. 
Vere while Gussy is here. He is the handsomest man in town, 
my dear. You must take care.” 

“I,” said Augusta, with some degree of indignation. 

“ Oh,” said Miss Bella, “ do you consider yourself proof? I can 


90 


Henry Lyle. 


assure you he is a dangerous person — a most killing creature.” 

“ Perfectly charming ,” said Miss Delaville, following up all 
with her pet phrase, and prolonging it into a small wail of 
admiration. 

The Miss Delavilles were in an intense state of agitation until 
Mr. Vere called ; hut then, unhappily, they chanced to he out. 
A dinner-party was planned — and poor Mrs. Delaville was 
coaxed and persuaded into carrying it out — nominally for twelve 
or fourteen persons, hut in reality for Mr. Arthur Yere. 

Augusta was surprised when she saw Mr. Yere. The Miss 
Delavilles had not overrated his personal appearance. He was 
very handsome, beyond dispute, for his beauty was according to 
the strictest rules. His fine head was covered with short, curly 
locks of dark hair, which clustered over his forehead like an 
Antonious’s. His eyes were large and deeply set, so that no one 
ever agreed as to their colour. Every feature might have been 
chiselled by a sculptor, and yet there was no insipidity or want 
of manliness with his extreme beauty, for his figure was tall 
and athletic, and the mind which shone in his countenance 
was the powerful mind of a man. Augusta found herself sev- 
eral times during the evening examining Mr. Yere’s face while 
he was speaking, for when he conversed carelessly the proud 
upper lip unbent, and there was a sweetness in the expression 
of his face which powerfully attracted her. 

Arthur Yere never talked nonsense ; there was nothing boy- 
ish about his manner, such as we see continually in Englishmen 
of all ages ; but Augusta had known but few young men, and 
she thought only that Mr. Yere was more than usually serious. 


Henry Lyle. 


91 


There was in his manner towards the Miss Delavilles a kind 
of mock deference, as if he were perfectly aware of the ridicu- 
lous things they constantly said, but had forbearance sufficient 
to smile only when they were not observant of his features ; and 
Augusta was surprised, almost amazed, at finding on more than 
one occasion Mr. Yere’s glance directed towards herself, as if 
for confirmation of his own amused expression of face, after 
some rally on Miss Delaville’s part. 

He directed a great part of his conversation to Augusta that 
evening, a compliment the extent of which she did not appre- 
ciate until Miss Delaville informed her that she had been 
indeed honoured. 

“Why, my dear, he is the cleverest man in town ; I should 
think it is not many girls he would take the trouble to talk to 
so much. You may esteem yourself very highly favoured.” 

“I suppose I ought, then,” Augusta answered; “it did not 
so occur to me before.” 

Miss Delaville did not, however, seem quite to like the fact, 
although she dwelt upon it several times. Augusta did not say 
so for fear of giving offence, but she thought that she had not 
derived particular pleasure from Mr. Yere’s much valued 
remarks. There was a satirical or rather sarcastic tone per- 
vading all he said, which struck unpleasantly upon the notice 
of Augusta, as if on all subjects more might be said, but was 
passed over, perhaps in defference to her own unsophisticated 
and. kind-hearted judgment. 

If there is in society a character most unpleasant, it is that 
which imbues all his observations with a tone — or it may be 


92 


Henry Lyle. 


but a look — of “ There is nothing in it might we be allowed 
so far-fetched a simile, as if his mental or moral nose were 
continually turning up at the evil savour of humanity. Such 
was not, strictly speaking, Mr. Yere’s apparent feeling. There 
was nothing of regret in his sarcasm. He was perfectly happy 
in despising others. Perfectly satisfied in his own superiority 
over the rest of mankind ; yet in all his remarks there was 
mixed so much of truth, that it was difficult to know where to 
stop approval and commence condemnation. Thus, at the 
conclusion of a speech which must have struck every hearer 
as, at the least, coolly assumptive when Augusta looked at 
him in some surprise, and remarked : “ I cannot by any means 
call you a modest man ; you seem to have a very just appre- 
ciation of your own powers,” Yere answered, with a smile, not 
in the least offended at her plain speaking. 

“What do you mean by the word modesty, Miss Leigh? It 
would be absurd, indeed if a man were to pretend he thought 
himself a fool, when his own judgment tells him he is not so, 
and the world confirms him in his own opinion.” 

“ But- men do not generally, I should think, let others see 
they have a good opinion of themselves,” said Augusta. 

“ Did I say I . had so of myself ?” he asked. 

“No, you did not actually say, * I consider myself very 
superior to the rest of the world,’ but you appear to think so.” 

“ I cannot help an inference which you may draw from my 
words, Miss Leigh,” Ye re answered. “ Modesty must be in 
proportion to a man’s capacity. I do not call one modest if he 
possesses nothing whatever to be proud of. His humility is 


Henry Lyle. 


93 


forced upon him, and is the natural effect of circumstances.” 

Very true ; and yet,” said Augusta, “ I thought the most 
gifted men were generally the most modest. Are they not ?” 

“ I do not think so, according to what you seem to esteem as 
modesty. A man of ability must he aware of his own power, 
and others may construe that consciousness of power into self- 
conceit.” 

“ A fool thinks himself wise, you remember,” said Augusta, 
laughing, “ hut a wise man knows himself to he a fool.” 

“ So the proverb says. A wise man may know himself to 
be a fool compared with what he might he or will be, but at 
the same time he knows himself to be wiser than the fools 
around him ; and if he pretends that he does not, he must take 
everybody else to be greater fools than they are to believe 
him.” 

“ Stop, stop ! I must have time to understand that. Re- 
member', wise man, that I am one of the fools around you.” 

Mr. Yere smiled at the answer ; there seemed to him a fas- 
cination in the entirely new way in which he was treated — he 
who had been accustomed to defference and flattery. 

You are partly right,” said Augusta, after "a pause ; “ per- 
haps the proverb is more applicable in a higher sense. A man, 
however wise, must feel his powers sink into insignificance and 
folly when compared with Divine wisdom, for the foolishness of 
God, strange as the expression sounds, is wiser than man.” 

Mr. Yere gave no answering smile to her remark, and rising 
from the seat which he had, during the forgoing conversation, 
occupied by her side, he moved to another part of the room, 


94 


Henry Lyle. 


relinquishing the position to Miss Bella Delaville, whom he 
saw coming towards them. 

He did not return to Augusta’s side again that evening, but 
when he took his leave he held out his hand to her, while 
others, who had also known her but for a few hours, attempt- 
ed no such proof of friendly feeling. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“For what then do we live?” asked Henry Lyle. The 
question arose naturally from the preceding conversation, yet 
the Miss Delavilles looked as if he had said some strange thing, 
and when one of them spoke, it was to express in words the 
thought of both. 

“ You really do say the most extraordinary things, Mr. Lyle ; 
who hut you would ever ask such a question as that ?” 

“ It does not seem to me extraordinary,” he replied. “ It is 
a question which must occur to every one of us at times, I 
think. ‘ To what end am I living?’ is surely wiser to he asked 
now than hereafter, when the question will he changed to — 

‘ To what end have I lived V and the answer may be a fatal 
one.” 

Miss Delaville did not reply ; hut Augusta smiled at Henry, 
and he continued : 


Henry Lyle. 


96 


“ We must all live either for ourselves, or for God and 
others ; the first course is madness, for it is expressly forbidden. 
Christ as plainly says to us now as He once said to others, 
‘ Labour not for the meat that perisheth.’ There is but one 
safe path, and is it not important that we should discover 
which we have taken ; that we all should continually ask the 
question, ‘ To what end am I living-?’ ” 

This last sentence was a question, yet Miss Delaville did not 
attempt to answer it, but turned it off with her usual remark, 
“ What a strange man you are ; you say such grave things at 
times, and yet no one is more easily amused than you are. 
To see you standing there one. would think you did not know 
how to smile.” 

Henry belied the imputation immediately ; but answered as 
he did so, “ You recollect there is a time for all things, my 
dear lady. It would never do to laugh away existence.” 

The Miss Delavilles, we have said, appeared greatly to 
admire Henry Lyle, and yet it seemed as if the admiration 
were expressed more as an obligation than a pleasure. A non- 
appreciation of the genius of any talented man would have 
argued the ladies themselves deficient, and the Miss Delavilles 
prided themselves upon being capable of admiring all that was 
admirable. They therefore shrieked at everything that Lyle 
said although they did the same the following hour at a senti- 
ment uttered by Mr. Yere, although the principle might be of 
exactly opposite tendency. 

Had Miss Delaville been asked what were her principles, 
both for here and hereafter, we think it would have taken her 


Henry Lyle. 


97 


some time to decide so as to answer candidly. Perhaps the 
reply might have been something as the following : 

“ Why Mr. Yere said to-day such and such a thing, and Mr. 
Lyle said yesterday exactly the reverse — they are both clever 
men.” 

Or, “I suppose that I believe and profess what other people 
believe and profess ; but I am not certain ; and people differ so 
much in opinions ; and I find it wisest to disagree with none.” 

And of the younger sister had such “ very absurd” questions 
been asked, perhaps she might in thought, though not in 
words, have said 

“ Ask my sister ; I believe what she believes ; my principles 
are in nowise independent.” Or she might more honestly have 
parried the question with another : 

“What is a principle ? I have never taken the trouble to 
find out. It seems to me something very unnecessary and unin- 
telligible.” 

When Henry Lyle was gone, Miss Delaville assailed Augusta 
afresh with the oft-repeated remark, “What very strange 
things Mr. Lyle says.” 

“ He does not to me seem to say strange things,” answered 
Augusta. He speaks more freely and feelingly perhaps than 
most men. I should be sorry to think that such feelings wero 
strange.” 

“ Ah, for that matter, you are quite as odd as he is, Miss 
Gussy,” returned the lady; “you will be capitally matched. 
But I confess I cannot follow Mr. Lyle. He seems at times 
quite in another world, with his philanthropy and high prin- 


98 


Henry Lyle. 


ciple, as I suppose it is called. He is mucli too good for me ; 
I cannot understand him. He ought to live in an Utopia to 
be appreciated, or go to heaven at once, instead of stopping 
here amongst ordinary mortals, trying to take them with him.” 

Augusta felt offended at the flippancy of the speech, and 
forbore answering for fear she might speak too strongly ; and 
Miss Delaville before long resumed : 

“ Don’t you be telling him what I have said, you know, for 
I like to hear him talk, however dull I may be of comprehen- 
sion, because he never preaches, and he seems to think every- 
body as good or better than himself. I sometimes feel ashamed 
of his giving me credit for so much more than I am. Besides, 
I love a clever man, even though he should come out occasion- 
ally with such odd things. Now Mr. Yere is quite Lyle’s oppo- 
site, and dreadfully wicked. I am afraid I get on better with 
him than I do with your friend Henry, Augusta.” 

“I should not like a man if I thought him dreadfully 
wicked,” said Augusta, simply. “ I hope I should have no 
feelings in common with him ; but I fancy you are jesting in 
what you say.” 

“Ah, but there is the difference, you see,” said Miss Delaville, 
“ between you and me. I can accommodate myself admirably 
to Mr. Yere, notwithstanding his wickedness. Now I can rat- 
tle on in answer to him ; but when Henry Lyle talks I can only 
listen and applaud. I believe he is quite right in all he says, 
but he is too virtuous ; he never says anything agreeably 
wrong.” 

Augusta was silent, and Miss Delaville laughingly said: 


Henry Lyle 


99 


“Ah! I have shocked you now. You see I do not stand in 
awe of you as I do of your husband that is to he. I would not 
dare shock him for my life.” 

“ Why, what would you expect him to do to you?” asked 
Augusta, unable to keep her gravity. 

“ Do ? Nothing, hut look like a pitying angel, or something 
of that sort. I am obliged to behave myself in his presence, 
whether I will or no.” 

Miss Delaville spoke fact. She felt herself obliged to behave 
correctly in Henry Lyle’s presence, young man as he was ; not 
because she respected him for his talents. 

Augusta looked up as Miss Delaville concluded, and 
answered : 

“There should be, I think, no necessity of the outward pres- 
ence of any man to induce us to try and behave rightly. We 
have a higher and stronger motive.” 

“ Eh ?” said Miss Delaville. 

“The persuasion of being always in the presence of God,” 
said Augusta. 

“ Oh ! Henry Lyle all over, is she not?” laughed Miss Dela- 
ville ; a laugh in which the younger sister joined. “ What an 
apt pupil you have been, to be sure. I suppose you are indebt- 
ed to him for all these sentiments.”' 

“Iam indebted to him for a great deal,” answered Augusta. 
“ But, Miss Delaville, am I not right, whether Henry taught 
me so or no ? Is it not so ?” 

“ Oh ! yes ; of course, my dear girl, we all know it is,” 
answered Miss Delaville. “ Certainly, I suppose it should be so.” 


100 


Henry Lyle. 


And Miss Delaville having verbally agreed and supposed 
■what might possibly be her duty, resumed her book, and forgot 
everything about it. 

Almost from their first meeting, Mr. Yere had called Augusta 
by her Christian name, and she did not know how to avoid 
his doing so. 

When Henry Lyle had so acted, Augusta had felt no dis- 
pleasure ; she had looked upon the friendly feeling thus shown 
as a compliment to herself; but Mr. Yere’s action seemed very 
different. There was an air of patronage in his manner which 
was galling to Augusta’s womanly pride. On several occasions 
of his doing so, she showed surprise by her looks, but he only 
laughed, and said : 

“ Why do not you call me Arthur ? I would rather a great 
deal you should.” 

“ I am sure you are greatly honoured, Miss Gussy,” ex- 
claimed the elder Miss Delaville. “It is not every one whom 
Mr. Yere would ask to be called Arthur by.” And turning to 
her sister, the lady added, with an engaging smile, “ What a 
beautiful name Arthur is, do you not think so ?” 

“ Oh, a sweet name !” responded Miss Bella, to whom every- 
thing in life was sweet, if it was not charming, her vocabulary 
of admiration being somewhat limited. 

“ I am afraid I am not sufficiently sensible of the honour, 
then,” Augusta answered. “I have no intention of calling him 
so, and I wish that he would not call me Augusta without my 
leave.” 

“Is not she a little prude?” laughed Miss Delaville; and, 


Henry Lyle. 


101 


whispering into Augusta’s ear, said, “ I fancy Henry Lyle is at 
the bottom of all this. You are afraid of a scolding from 
him.” 

“ I am not afraid of anything ; I am angry at Mr Yere’s 
impertinence.” 

Yere had not heard Miss Delaville’s aside, and he answered 
Augusta, laughingly : 

“ I shall call you whatever I choose ; and do not provoke mo 
by looking cross, or I shall have to come to ‘ Gussy.’ ” 

Both the Miss Delavilles laughed approvingly, and Augusta 
had not any redress. 


102 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Mrs. Yere was a prematurely broken-down woman, with 
the remains of great personal beauty. She had been a widow 
for many years, living for her son ; literally for him ; for Mrs. 
Yere had no higher motive in existence, no nobler principle of 
action, than what Arthur would wish, or Arthur would think. 
And Arthur returned this self-absorbing love with worse than 
indifference, with neglect — at times, with rudeness. Happily, 
Mrs. Yere could not to the full appreciate this want of affection 
on her son’s part ; she was content to love him, and live for 
him; content to see him look beautiful, and to hear him 
admired. There was something touching in the anxious look ‘ 
of interest she assumed when her son was # present, or was the 
topic of conversation — something loveable even in the magni- 
tude of her idolatry, leaning upon so baseless a foundation. 

Arthur Yere delighted the Miss Delavilles by making his 
visits at their house very frequent, and for some weeks they did 


Henry Lyle. 


103 


not guess that it was their friend and not them he visited. 
Augusta refrained from day to day telling the Miss Delavilles 
of her position with regard to Henry Lyle, and those ladies 
were pleased in the opportunity given them of laughing at the 
very decided attentions paid by Henry to their yojmg friend — 
and amused at the indifference with which Augusta received 
their remarks. Arthur Yere had lived hitherto unconscious of 
having a heart ; he had been sated with pleasure from his early 
youth ; he had seen women of every climate and every age, 
but never one so inartificial, so unsophisticated in feeling as 
Augusta. From her ignorance of evil, she was without hash- 
fulness, and spoke the feelings which rose spontaneous in her 
heart. Yere was captivated with her simplicity, at which at 
first he had been amused, then had wondered, then admired. 
She seemed a strange contrast to himself — a painful one she 
might have been had Yere been in the habit of examining his 
own heart. His very love for her took him by surprise, and 
left him astonished at himself. 

Philip Wilson left England at this juncture, as he had 
determined. 

There was from the first a reserve and formality subsisting 
between Lyle and Arthur Yere. The former could not proba- 
bly have explained the reason, had he been asked to account 
for it, and was not in himself aware of having personally 
induced it. 

This formality could not but be apparent to all ; and one 
morning, finding herself alone with Lyle, Augusta remarked 
upon it, coupling her observation with some praise of Mr. Yere. 


104 


Henry Lyle 


Henry looked grave, but answered good-humouredly 

“ Do you, then, find Mr. Yere as fascinating as the rest of the 
world seems to find him ? Are you very much possessed in 
his favour ?” 

“ I think him very agreeable and very clever, and ” 

“ What else, Gussy ?” asked Henry. 

“ I am afraid I cannot say very good,” added she, gravely, 
Mr. Yere says such extremely strange things.” 

Henry Lyle looked at her earnestly, but made no answer. 
He was generally silent when the unfavorable side of character 
in another was discussed. Next time he spoke it was of 
another subject. 

At their first meeting^ Mr. Yere had expressed great outward 
satisfaction in renewing his acquaintance with Lyle. It 
appeared that they had known each other at some former 
period, and he launched out on more than one occasion in 
praise of Lyle’s talent, so as to induce the Miss Delavilles to 
exclaim with rapture, 

“ Oh ! Mr. Yere, it is few men can be so generous to 
another’s talents as you are ; but you are so secure of your own 
position, that you can afford to praise. It is delightful to listen 
to you, I am sure !” 

Yere smiled slightly, as if despising the lady’s flattery, and 
turned to Augusta. 

It was not many days afterwards, when Augusta was 
expecting the return of Mrs. Seymour, and her visit to the Miss 
Delavilles was nearly at an end, that, having stayed at home 
from fatigue when the ladies drove out for their usual after* 


Henry Lyle. 


105 


noon’s amusement, there was a knock at the door, and 
presently the servant announced Mr. Yere into the room where 
Augusta was sitting by herself. 

Yere seemed pleased at finding her alone, and merely 
making a remark upon the absence of the other ladies, unac- 
companied by any regrets, he sat down beside her. He was 
silent for some seconds after doing so, and Augusta wondered 
when he intended to speak, and was striving to think of some- 
thing to say herself, when Yere asked, 

“ How did you become acquainted with Henry Lyle ?” 

The question seemed almost rude in its abruptness ; and 
Augusta answered, with some quickness, 

“ He was a friend of my father’s.”- 

“I was at school with him years ago,” resumed Yere. “He 
and I used to be deadly foes in those days. He appears to 
have grown into a very fine fellow,” continued he, glancing at 
Augusta, “ but still retains some of his mad ideas.” 

“ I do not consider any of his ideas mad,” said Gussy, 
indignantly. 

Yere smiled, and answered, 

“ That’s right, stand up for friendship ; but you will leam 
better in a few years.” 

Augusta felt angry at his words — he seemed to assume a 
patronising air, as if speaking to a child : 

“ There is no necessity for my standing up for Henry Lyle ; 
he is a very clever man.” 

“ I did not say he is not — did I ?” said Yere, gently 
5 * 


106 


Henhy Lyle. 


“ And, more than that,” returned Augusta, “ a highly 
principled man.” 

“ What is that ?” asked Yere. 

Augusta looked at him in some surprise. “ Do not speak so 
flippantly upon a serious subject,” said she. 

“ Do you call the subject in question serious ? I might ask 
what meaning you attach to the word. However, I am not a 
serious man — I have lived too long in the world for that,” said 
Yere. 

“ It may be because you have not lived long enough in the 
world to see the comparative worthlessness of it to the world 
to come. Some day you will think differently,” Augusta 
answered. 

“ Do you know that all you have just said you have learnt 
by rote, Miss Leigh ? That is not your own opinion. Some 
one else said it, or wrote it, and you repeat a mere prej- 
udice.” 

<( I am certain it is true, however; and, therefore, have taken 
it as my opinion. Those principles which we feel are stronger 
than those we arrive at by argument. Such feelings as the 
persuasion I just expressed rise almost to inspiration.” 

He looked steadfastly in her face, as he had several times 
before when she had spoken to him so plainly ; and, after a 
moment, replied, 

“ You are a good little girl, and it may be you are the hap- 
pier for your credulity.” He checked a sigh as it rose to his 
lips, and resumed ; “ We outgrow all these things, you see.” 

“ Wo ought not to do so, Mr. Yere,” she replied. “You sur- 


Henry Lyle. 


107 


prise me by the odd manner in which you speak. I think you 
are very wrong.” 

“ You have told me so several times since our acquaintance,” 
answered Yere ; “ and you are the first who has ever done 
so.” 

“You are not angry at my saying what I think?” she 
asked ; for he had been walking up and down the room. Yere 
sat down again upon the sofa by her. 

“I wish,” said he, “that you would always do so, dear 
Miss Leigh. I would, I was about to say, attend more to what 
you say to me than any living creature. Augusta, if I had had 
some one to -check me earlier I might have been a better man. 
I might have lived for worthier purposes than 1 do now. If 
there had been but one who sometimes spoke the truth, instead 
of this eternal flattery, I should not have been the self-conceited 
idiot I am now. Augusta, had I a wife such as you she might 
make me anything. I would give up all. My heart could 
make an idol of a woman, as I have made ambition hitherto 
my god.” 

All this was said in a low voice and with a hurried manner. 

i r 

It seemed as if it were another man than Arthur Yere who 
was speaking. 

“ Oh ! do not speak so— it is very wrong,” said Augusta. 

“ Wrong, when the object is worthy ?” asked he. 

“Yery wrong. No object is sufficiently worthy to reign 
paramount in the human breast but One. He who made tho 
heart must be the master of its affections, or those affections 
will ruin the heart which holds them, ” said Augusta. 


108 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Is it so ?” asked Yere, still in the same tone, and keeping 
his eyes upon the ground 

“ Has it not always been so ? The heart must be possessed 
with a nobler ambition than mere self-advancement or human 
applause for its own happiness. You must acknowledge this 
truth.” 

“ Truth !” said Yere, catching at the last word. “ It is 
what man’s life is spent in searching for, and what he never 
finds. What is truth ?” 

“ Do not say * never finds.’ Had Pilate, when he put the 
same question as you have just asked, waited for an answer, 
he would have been satisfied. He was standing at the 
fountain-head of truth — was he not?” added Augusta, pres- 
ently, for her companion was silent. Yere rose from the sofa, 
and walked towards the window. 

Augusta felt distressed for him, and was unable to speak 
again. His words created in her mind a strange interest for 
him. She had liked Mr. Yere from the first, but she had very 
soon lost her respect for him ; she felt afraid that his words and 
actions were not influenced by any high principle. 

Yere turned suddenly round from the window where he had 
been standing. “Miss Leigh,” said he, “ will you marry me ?” 

She looked at him with such blank amazement that he 
repeated the question, less calmly than before. 

“ I wish, Mr. Yere,” said Augusta, as soon as she had 
regained her voice, “that you had never thought of asking me. 
I did not expect this.” 

Again he repeated the question, as if not listening to her 


Henry Lyle 


109 


objections. His eyes flashed and his lip trembled so that she 
felt frightened to be alone with him. 

“ I am engaged to Henry Lyle,” said she, wishing at once to 
put an end to any hope upon Yere’s part. 

“ Henry Lyle !” said Yere, between his teeth. Augusta 
started at the strange expression he gave the words, and looked 
into his face. He was very pale, almost haggard, in a few 
minutes. 

“ Listen to me,” said Yere, in a subdued voice. “ By 
myself, by my honour, I swear — and I can swear by no greater 
— you shall one day regret you have refused me. You may 
think to be happy with that sanctimonious Lyle, but I will 
mar your happiness. I will be the curse of his existence as 
surely as now I curse himself.” 

“ Stop, Mr. Yere. Do not dare to curse a fellow-creature, 
lest the curse turn upon your own head !” said Augusta, 
solemnly. 

Yere laughed, but quite unnaturally. 

“ Do you hesitate ?” he asked. “ Will you choose your own 
fate ? I swear to you that if you marry that man, yours shall 
be a life of misery — you shall regret you ever met him.” 

“ Never ! Mr. Yere. Whatever lot may be mine in after 
years, I shall have the blessing of a good man’s love ; and you 
seem, indeed, to consider yourself omnipotent in prescribing 
misery as my future portion ; but there is One who can and 
will overrule any attempts of yours to mar our happiness. You 
overrate your powers. Your threats are idle.” 

“ Not so idle as you think : they will not be, indeed. It is 


110 


Henry Lyle. 


the will makes the power. I will guard against any frustra- 
tion of my wishes such as you seem to anticipate.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Yere, you are a fearful man !” said Augusta, 
earnestly. 

“ Do you find me so ? I can he so,” said he. 

“ I did not mean one to he feared ; you are a fearfully wicked 
man.” 

“ I am a determined man,” said Yere. 

“ I will be obliged to you, sir, ” said Augusta, her own firm- 
ness returning with his display of it, “ to end this subject, and 
to leave me.” 

He gave her no answer, but bowing to her, left the room. 

Was this Augusta Leigh whom we have segn so childish and 
dependent upon others, so uncertain of her own principles, now 
acting as a woman, boldly professing opinions as her own ? To 
what influence was she indebted for this sudden growth into 
womanhood ? To that of Lyle. With no evident influence, 
no apparent control, Augusta, in his constant society, began to 
feel her own individual responsibility for principles, opinions, 
and sentiments ; began to gain those principles as her own, 
which before she had looked upon as independent of herself, as 
abstract sympathies in which she had no part. Can each of 
us remember the time when facts applied themselves to us — 
when we have been forced to believe for ourselves , not on the 
testimony of others, that all these things are so; that this 
God of whom men speak is our God ; this future to be 
employed, this eternity to be reached, that the world may not 
pass on our right hand and on our left, and we be blameless in 


Henry Lyle. 


Ill 


the excuse of not having noticed it, and having forgotten that 
every face we meet has upon it the human stamp of brotherhood ; 
and that the question of the first rebel against love, “ Am I my 
brother’s keeper ?” was never answered in the negative ? 

Augusta sat for some time after Mr. Yere had left her, 
utterly astounded at his conduct, and unable to collect hex 
thoughts. His words, his sudden action, seemed all like a 
dream, or as if he had tried to play upon her simplicity, and 
had acted a drama for his own amusement. 

It was but yesterday, as it were, that she had known him ; 
certainly she had, until this moment, looked upon him as a 
stranger ; and here he had been, in her presence, giving 
expression to feelings beyond her conception, and to emotion 
painful to witness in a man. The pained look of his face 
recurred to her mind continually, as if it would reproach her. 
She felt an almost irresistible inclination to tell it all to Henry 
Lyle, and ask of him some solution ; but the next moment she 
felt that such an act might be an injustice to Mr. Yere. 

Then the thought occurred to her, why should she be the 
person selected of all others to be placed in so very uncomfor- 
table a position? What could have induced a man, who 
knew so very little of her, as necessarily Mr. Yere must do, to 
act in the rash manner he had acted? She did not know 
that she carried her character written in her face, and that 
from the first hour of his introduction to her, Mr. Yere’s 
penetration had read her like a book. It was not to him as if 
he had known Augusta Leigh but a few weeks ; he never took 
into consideration the shortness of their acquaintance. Yere’s 


112 


Henry Lyle. 


will was made, and he carried it out, as far as it rested in his 
own hands ; and the man who was coveted and admired by 
every one he met, who was raved about by many of his 
female acquaintances, who was looked upon hopelessly by 
most as a man who never would think of marrying, because 
he knew too well that he had but to ask in order to have, 
offered himself recklessly to a young, simple-hearted girl, who 
was not in the least aware of the valuable possession, as the 
world judged, which she was declining. 

What would the Miss Delavilles have thought and said had 
they known what took place in their drawing-room that 
afternoon ? 

What would many ladies of Mr. Yere’s acquaintance have 
said of him, and of Augusta Leigh, could they have learnt it ? 


Henry Lyle, 


113 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Yere scarcely knew which most to feel in Augusta Leigh’s 
rejection of him — anger, sorrow, or surprise. The thought 
that she could refuse him had never occurred to his mind. 
Any other woman of his acquaintance would have never 
dreampt of doing so. So he thought. He had never before 
given one of them the opportunity. He had hut to approach in 
order to call up smiles. All his life long he had been flattered 
and sought after. From a child he had been his mother’s idol ; 
she had yielded in all things to him. On account of his great 
personal beauty, she had indulged him as if he were the only 
child in the world to he considered. 

He was not liked by his playmates, as a child, for his arro- 
gance and overhearing spirit, for children are better judges of 
character than grown people ; and it was not long before 
Arthur Yere was known by every associate of his childhood, 
which was consumed in alternately domineering over his play- 

* . 


Henry Lyle. 


i i4 

fellowg, and going through pugilistic encounters in order to hold 
his position as a superior. Had he been a less sensible man, he 
would have grown up a fop ; but such was not the case. 

As he matured and his powerful mind developed itself, and 
he seemed formed to carry all before him, his mother’s love 
grew to folly. Not only now was his person thought perfec- 
tion, but none could rank with him in intellect. Any who 
dared to differ from him must be wrong. It is true most peo- 
ple agreed with her in admiring her son ; for personal beauty, 
especially when married to gentle and engaging manners, 
almost invariably makes its way ; and the mass did not see 
the absence in Yere of the truest beauty — an amiable or good 
expression. His features were perfect, and he smiled and 
talked well and that was enough. Yere published, was talked 
of and applauded, and his mother read no criticisms but what 
were in his favour. But yet, with all her fondness, did Mrs. 
Yere really love her son? It was strange that no thought 
beyond the present day of prosperity ever agitated her bosom. 
Was he always to be the sought-after man of talent — the 
admired and courted Adonis ? Might there not come a day 
when those talents might be asked after, that beauty demanded 
on account ? Of such things his mother never thought. When 
Arthur was a child she looked only on the surface, and now 
that he was a man it never seemed to occur to her that the son 
for whom she lived had an accountable soul. With the face 
of an angel, what was the heart of Yere ? Within 'the most 
beautiful cast of God’s own image, the soul denied that God 
whose image it bore. Yere was an Atheist. Can such a thing 


Henry Lyle. 


115 


be ? Men have professed to be such before now ; and what- 
ever Vere’s secret thoughts might be if ever he arraigned them 
at the tribunal of his own heart, in words and in deeds he said, 
“ There is no God.” His mother did not know the extent of 
her son’s apostasy; she knew he was careless of religion and 
careless of his duties, but she argued as many others have, “All 
young men are the same,” if she cared to argue to herself 
about it. He was handsome and clever, and she sought for 
nothing else. But how came it that from others she had never 
heard her son was an infidel ? Vere’s works had never yet 
been strictly so. There was an absence of religious feeling 
which might have been painfully remarkable, but to Mrs. Vere 
such things were not obvious ; religion not being a principle of 
her own mind, she did not miss it. Most of Vere’s men 
acquaintances knew pretty well what he was, but men do not 
generally speak of such things to women. 

Vere was aware that most women would be shocked at 
such a profession as he made ; and he, who was especially 
their favourite, did not care to lose their admiration by letting 
his principles appear, the which he considered them, for the 
most part, incapable of understanding. Yet, with all Mrs. 
Vere’s idolatry of her son, what had she in return ? It might 
be thought that such indulgence as hers merited some rec- 
ompense ; but, no : Arthur had ruled and domineered over 
nis mother as a child, and as a man he despised her for her 
folly towards himself. Her continual allusions to his personal 
beauty, her weak and childish admiration of all he said and 
did, disgusted him constantly. He was proud of himself, his 


116 


Henry Lyle. 


acquirements, his talents, and his appearance ; hut the vainest 
man will become nauseated with incessant praise, and Yere 
showed his displeasure in a most unbecoming and ungrateful 
manner. Had Mrs. Yere’s feelings been of a sensitive order, 
she would ^have been continually annoyed with the cutting 
allusions made by her son. He thought his mother a fool, and 
made no disguise of the feeling ; but whatever Arthur said, or 
however Arthur looked, in Mrs. Yere’s eyes must be right ; his 
remarks were clever, and every expression of his features 
became him. 

Had Yere been educated differently he would have been a 
better man, and this he had, at least once, already felt. He 
had said rightly : he could have made a woman his idol ; he 
could have loved truly and devotedly ; he could have gone on 
to anything good and great, for his mind was grandly formed, 
his intellect was cultivated, and his heart expansive ; but that 
mind was exercised on base materials, that intellect employed 
erroneously, and that heart swayed by impulsive passion instead 
of principle. 

With all Yere’s fame, his flattering attentions, his graceful 
manners, and glorious beauty, he was an unhappy man at 
times. Sickened with the palling repetitions of admiration, 
with no world beyond that which is without, at eight-and- 
twenty there seemed for him to be nothing new under the sun. 
So it sometimes would occur to him when he was alone, and 
when, the world shut out, our private, inner existence, will 
intrude upon us. A wretched man is he who is alone with 
his own heart, yet feels that there is no God dwelling there. 


Henry Lyle. 


117 


Yere had loved Augusta almost from the first hour he saw 
her, and he confidently expected she would love him in return. 
He had more than once been annoyed with her evident 
interest in Henry Lyle’s conversation, and more than once a 
quickly-excited jealousy had crossed his heart ; hut yet, when 
on this morning he had proposed to Augusta, he did not expect 
otherwise than she would consent to be his wife. He had, 
whenever he of late had thought upon the future, associated 
that future with her, and for a short time it scarcely seemed 
as if it could be true that such an event had happened. And 
yet he sat for hours that afternoon in his own room, writing 
several chapters of the work he had in hand. 


113 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XV. 


Poor Yere ! Augusta thought of him with much more of 
pity than of anger, and forgot, or forgave, his threats in remem- 
bering his blanched cheek and haggard expression. She could 
not help looking upon him as more sinned against than sinning, 
and reproaching herself with an unintentional fault against him. 

Poor Yere ! That same evening there was a man’s dinner- 
party at Sir William L ’a. There were present, young 

B , who was considered very clever, one or two artists, a 

few fashionable celebrities — whether for their brains or their 
names — and the host himself ranked as one of these. 

“ How late Yere is,” observed Sir William, looking at his 
watch, and looking impatient also. 

And, as is the custom, nobody loved Yere, under the 
circumstances. 

The unpleasant feeling was, however, soon dispelled by the 
arrival of the man himself. 


Henry Lyle. 


119 


“ Am I late ?” asked he. 

“ Oh no !” answered the host, lying with the utmost polite- 
ness ; “just in time. What have you been doing with yourself?” 

“I only came up from Richmond half an hour ago,” 
answered Yere, lightly, and he talked with animation until 
dinner was announced. 

******* 

“ Power of the human mind !” echoed Mr. Langley, in 
reference to a preceding sentence on the part of Yere. “ But 
how far does that power extend ; what are its capacities ; how, 
in fact, can that be considered power which may at any 
moment be overruled or thwarted by a higher influence ?” 

“ Thwarted by contending influence it may be,” answered 
Vere, “ for the universe is composed of human wills, most of 
them of equal force ; but where a superior intellect is at work, 
it will take captive the wills of others. Society is usually 
governed by one or two men. Individuals are not thinking 
beings, however they may think themselves so. They reflect 
as' the line is laid out for them.” 

“ Then how fearful must be the responsibility of such 
master minds,” observed Mr. Langley, who was apparently 
ignorant of Mr. Yere’s principles, “If in their train they lead 
others into truth or falsehood.” 

Yere smiled towards the speaker. 

“ I do not admit your reasoning,” continued the gentleman. 

“ If each man is individually responsible, as we believe him to 
be, hi3 guidance would not be allowed so entirely as you 
imagine to other limited, however superior, intellects.” 


120 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Intellect is not limited,” said Yere ; “ it is progressive, and 
the progress must be gradual; now it is not developed, but 
every day sees an advance.” 

“ Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further,” said the former 
speaker, as if musing. 

The handsome lip of Yere curled disdainfully as he over- 
heard the remark ; and to look at that face, so lighted up with 
the consciousness of power, one might have thought, with 
him, where is the limit to human intellect ? 

There was once a man, high in power, intellectually, 
socially, and politically, and his heart was so lifted up as he 
saw the great things which his mental and bodily force had 
created, that he said in his heart, “ Have not I done all these 
things, by my power and the greatness of my wisdom?” And 
that same man became lower than the beasts of the field, and 
the intellect in which he had gloried was shattered and 
destroyed, until he acknowledged that man is but man. 

There was a man who sat high above his fellows in every 
earthly advantage, who had Truth offered to him and rejected 
it ; who carried away the hearts of others as he spoke, so that 
the people, in their lavish adulation, rent the air, and 
exclaimed : 

“ It is the voice of a god, and not of a man.” 

And his heart acknowledged the impious flattery ; he “ gave 
not God the glory ;” and that same man became a spectacle 
to mock at for after ages, a monument of the weakness of our 
human nature. 

“ Young man, you speak unthinkingly,” said Mr. Langley. 


Henry Lyle. 


121 


“ Excuse me, sir,” returned Yere, “ I never speak unthink- 
ingly.” 

“ I believe you do not,” said Sir William L . “ Our 

friend Yere,” he continued, turning to Mr. Langley, “ is well 
aware of the weight of the words he used. Only pray do not 
enter upon discussions of such a nature. ,They are very 
heating.” 

“ I never obtrude my principles unless called upon,” an- 
swered Yere. 

“Is the gentleman’s name Vere?" asked Mr. Langley, 
stiffly. 

“ Certainly,” said the owner of the name, smiling. 

The other was silent, and shortly afterwards made an excuse 
for taking his leave, who, had he remained a little longer 
within ear-shot, would have had the gratification of hearing 
himself styled “ one of the fools of the human species,” by his 
late antagonist, the remark being followed by a roar of laughter, 
in which everbody joined but Yere himself. 

Although considerably younger than most of those with 
whom he associated, Yere generally took the lead in conversa- 
tion wherever he went ; perhaps it was his overhearing argu- 
ments, or his determined assumption of superiority, or, more 
probably, the real superiority of his mind. He always led, and 
others followed : some at a distance, admiringly ; others, as 

young B , close at his heels, hating him for his better 

position. 

There had always been a rivalry on the part of B ; Yere 

acknowledged rivalry with no one. With the utmost coolness 


122 


Henry Lyle. 


he would silence men old enough to be fathers to him ; not 
rudely, or with apparent ill-breeding — that he was never guilty 
of — but most politely would he hurt the feelings of others, and 
with the greatest courtesy make his companions feel or look 
like fools. "We have stated an impossibility, we are aware. 
There is no politeness or courtesy in such a disposition, and yet 
Yere was considered a perfect gentleman. 

B was thrown into the shade by Yere — and he was 

painfully aware of it. He could not shake hands, or pass a 
common observation with his friend , but he knew that Yere 
was his superior. Everybody acknowledged, though, that 

young B was a very clever man, and his literary works 

were much admired. The worst part of it was that Yere 
always praised them, as if he could afford to do it. 


Henry Lyle. 


123 


CHAPTER XVI 


One evening at a party — a very dull one — at the house of a 
mutual acquaintance, where in the same room were congre- 
gated amongst others Mrs. Seymour and Augusta, who were 
once more together, Henry Lyle, the Miss Delavilles, Mrs. 
Vere, and her son ; an evening when the Miss Delavilles came 
out brilliantly in their peculiar style of absurdity, lionising both 
Lyle and Vere, and being so divided between the two that 
they scarcely knew which to flatter most — Vere and Lyle com- 
menced an amicable discussion, urged on to it by the Miss 
Delavilles, who worried at both like a pair of terriers. It was 
a subject interesting to all, but not bearing upon the profession 
of either of the men, and, at least outwardly, both were per- 
fectly good-humoured and free from personal feeling, although, 
as always they were, diametrically opposed in principle. 

Vere prided himself upon being a perfect gentleman in pub- 
lic, and was generally acknowledged so. Henry Lyle was a 


124 


Henry Lyle. 


perfect gentleman at all times, without thinking on tho 
subject. 

“Is it not charming to hear them talk?” exclaimed Miss 
Bella Delaville to an elderly lady who was seated at a little 
distance, looking rather offended that the public attention had 
been taken off from herself. 

“ Oh, very,” said she, in anything hut an enthusiastic tone 
of voice. “ And who is the dark one ?” 

“ Mr. Arthur Yere, the author of the charming hooks * The 
Modem World ’ and ‘ Things as they Are,’ and all sorts of clever 
works,” answered the younger lady. 

“ And his opponent ?” 

i “ Lyle, the artist. By-the-hy, a namesake of yours.” 

The old lady took her spectacles from their case and placed 
them on her nose, .and steadily scrutinised the profile of Henry 
Lyle’s figure, for his face was turned towards some ladies who 
were taking an active part in the discussion. 

She made a short noise like that of some lower animal as 
she did so, and waited still, keeping her eyes fixed upon him 
earnestly, for Miss Bella had flitted away and left her again 
alone, until he turned round his face full towards her. It was 
a beautiful face in its animation and enthusiasm, beautiful in 
its expression of intelligence and intellect, to those who admire 
that style of beauty, and the old lady might have looked at it 
% with pleasure with no deeper feeling than any human being 
must or should have in all that is beautiful ; hut she examined 
Henry’s face, all unconscious as he was of the observation he 
attracted, with more , than mere interest, and rising from her 


Henry Lyle. 


125 


seat ishe walked up to where he stood, and as she came close 
behind him, said : 

“ Henery 1” 

He had not heard his unfortunate name so pronounced since 
, those never-to-be-forgotten days of his sad childhood, and the 
sound sent through his mind in an instant the recollection of 
that home which had been no home, the gaunt, grim figure of 
Miss Lyle, and all the petty tyrannies to which he had been 
subjected, even the last interview he had had with her when 
she had forbidden his again entering her house or claiming her 
name as kindred. Almost simultaneous with the mispronunci- 
ation of his name, he turned upon his heel ; but all these 
thoughts flew through his mind in the mere instant when, 
facing the speaker, he verified his anticipation in the sight of 
his grand-aunt. 

Henry Lyle flushed to the temples as he saw her, with the 
same feeling that used to make him colour as an infant ; the 
old association was irresistible. Yet he frankly held out his 
hand to her ; then, offering her his arm, he led her back to the 
sofa which she had left, and took a seat beside her. 

He did not speak for some moments, for the old shyness of his 
grand-aunt oppressed him, and when he did so, it was in 
a very grave voice, that he “ hoped she had been in good 
health since last he had seen her.” 

Miss Lyle was totally unchanged. Time seemed to have 
lost his usual power in her case, for the wrinkles upon her fore- 
head were the same as Henry remembered used to be when he 
had been a child. 


126 


Henry Lyle. 


Miss Lyle was in her heart pleased to find that the Lyle she 
had frequently heard spoken of was her nephew and former pro- 
tege ; that a man might be a painter, yet a gentleman and a 
respected member of society ; which, in her vulgar and bigoted 
notions she had discredited. But she would not appear to 
unbend towards her nephew, and she spoke in the old rigid 
manner. Henry Lyle told her of his contemplated marriage, 
and she stared for a moment at the audacity of his daring to 
marry at all ; but remembering again that he was no longer a 
child or under her control, she relaxed into a condescending smile, 
and inquired who was the lady. Henry went to Augusta, and 
requested permission to introduce her to his aunt ; a request 
which made the poor girl quite tremble with nervousness, as 
she remembered all the particulars of that aunt’s sternness, and 
glanced at the rigid figure on the sofa, so confirmatory of her 
known character. Henry begged her, as a favour to himself, to 
accompany him, and he might have felt the increased tightness 
of Grussy’s hold on his arm at every step which brought them 
nearer to Miss Lyle. The old lady presented the tips of her 
fingers to Augusta, after the latter had curtseyed with great 
deference, and Henry whispered to her to sit down by his 
grand-aunt, and “ say something.” 

Say something ! The most miserable and generally most 
futile of all requests. The greater the necessity of the occasion, 
the less willing is the something ever to be said. Gussy felt as 
if she had not, nor ever had, possessed an idea upon any subject 
whatever. However, she strained every mental nerve, and at 
length succeeded in remarking : 


Henry Lyle. 


127 


“ I have often heard Henry speak of you, madam.” 

“ Humph !” ejaculated the old lady. “ So I suppose. What 
is your name ?” 

Augusta told it. 

“ I don’t like fine names,” returned Miss Lyle, with ready 
rudeness. “ Eveiy girl has smart names now-a-days.” 

She seemed to consider that she had said enough to poor 
G ussy, whom she certainly had left without reply ; so, turning 
towards Henry Lyle, who was looking very annoyed at the 
sharp manner in which she had treated Augusta, she recom’ 
menced her conversation with him. 

“And pray how do you intend to live when you are married, 
Henery ? What have you to marry oil?” 

“ I must work,” he answered. 

“ And what does the young lady say to that ?” asked Miss 
Lyle, glancing towards Augusta. 

Augusta smiled, and Henry answered : 

“When Gussy showed the had taste to take a fancy to me, 
she knew she was loving a poor man, one of the working 
classes. If she is content to cast in her lot with mine, she 
knows that while I have either a head or hands capable of 
labour, they will work for her.” 

“Humph?” again ejaculated Miss Lyle. There was a dash 
of the old independence in Henry’s manner so obnoxious to 
Miss Lyle — an absence of proper servility to position, to wealth, 
and rich relatives. 

The transient interest which the sight of her nephew had 
awakened, was subsiding, and Miss Lyle observed : 


128 


Henry Lyle. 


“ That Mr. Yere, with whom you were talking when first I 
saw you, is a very fine-looking young man ; I should like to 
have him introduced.” Miss Lyle, like many old women, was 
a great admirer of handsome young men, and perfectly open to 
flattery and compliment. 

Henry answered to her remark in the affirmative, and 
offered to bring Mr. Yere to her if she wished it. The old 
lady became quite excited, and bridled and blushed as Yere 
bowed before her. 

If ever a man possessed what are usually called powers of 
fascination, Arthur Yere did. This evening, he excited them 
to their utmost. He flattered and complimented, subserved 
and courted, while Miss Lyle patted him on the shoulder and 
rapped him on the arm, all which was received with the most 
beaming smiles on the part of Yere, while Miss Lyle drew an 
invidious comparison in her own mind between the young man 
by her side, who seemed wholly engrossed with her attrac- 
tions, and her nephew, Henry Lyle, who, during the time he 
had stood by her, had not given her one flattering title, or told 
one pleasant untruth. Arthur Yere did not leave her the rest 
of the evening, and then not until he had obtained permission 
to call upon her ; an invitation which Miss Lyle most readily 
gave the stranger, but which she had withheld from her 
nephew Lyle. Miss Lyle spoke to Yere of Henry, demanding 
his opinion, which Yere gave as he understood would be 
agreeable, appearing to palliate, and so inferring what was not 
expressly said ; and. the old lady gave her opinion of Augusta 
Leigh somewhat disparagingly, so that the angry blood flushed 


Henry Lyle. 


129 


the forehead of Yere for a moment, and he murmured some- 
thing indistinctly, which was not in his companion’s favour, 
yet he outwardly smiled, and replied : 

“Oh, she is considered, I believe, by some, extremely 
attractive, and perhaps her apparent want of intelligence may 
originate in timidity.” 

“ Oh, of course you are indulgent to the opposite sex/’ said 
Miss Lyle, laughing affectedly. 

Yere smiled in return, and offered his arm to conduct her to 
her carriage. 

The carriage drove away and he stood still upon the 
pavement, when another pulled up close to him, and Mrs. 
Seymour’s name being called, he saw that lady approach, 
followed by Augusta, and accompanied by Lyle. 

Yere watched them as they parted, and he muttered to 
himself : 

“ Ever my opponent ; thwarting me at every turn, publicly 
and privately ; but it shall not always be so. You shall not 
have it entirely your own way.” 



6 * 


13C 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


No invitation came to Henry Lyle on the part of his grand* 
aunt ; hut thenceforth Mr. Yere was at her house continually. 
She flirted with him as if she had been a young girl, and he 
paid to her all the attentions of a fervent, however mock, 
admirer. Yere’s opinion was soon all to Miss Lyle, his advice 
was law. A sentence on his part would have healed the 
breach between Lyle and his aunt, would have replaced the 
nephew, perhaps, in the position which rightfully he should 
have held. All this Yere knew. 

He spoke on the subject one day, when encountering Henry 
Lyle. 

“ It is a pity you and your aunt are not friends ; she has a 
good property, has she not?” 

“ Yes,” Lyle answered, “ it is a pity, as you say, that she is 
not good friends with me, independent of her property. I am 
afraid she is prejudiced against me, and prejudices in the very 


Henry Lyle. 


131 


old, unfortunately, will not sometimes be combated.” 

“ She is an obstinate old girl,” said Yere. “ You have 
expectations from her, have you not ?” 

‘‘None whatever,” said Lyle, frankly. “ I have no claims 
at all upon her.” 

Miss Lyle occasionally mentioned her nephew’s name, as if 
her conscience demanded self-justification for the neglect of the 
charge left her on a death-bed ; and such mention always 
justified herself, as it revived the old feelings of indignation 
against Henry for his independence. Yere perceived at a 
glance the weak points of the lady ; and this one on the 
subject of her nephew’s independence of spirit he especially 
took hold of in his comments upon Henry Lyle’s actions, half- 

' *V 

defending, half-blaming, occasionally speaking almost admir- 
ingly of the very quality which Miss Lyle detested, and then, 
by an adroit correction, more than undoing any little praise he 
might have implied towards his rival. 

Yere was too good a student of human nature ever openly 
to decry one man to another ; and his ill-natured moderation 
of language would bring from Miss Lyle some such exclama- 
tion as the following : 

“ You are so generous, Mr. Yere ; so liberal and indulgent ! 
You know you are trying to make the best of what you cannot 
but in your heart condemn.” 

Yere smiled what he intended to be a pitying and indulgent 
smile ; looked supremely handsome ; Miss Lyle thought him 
the most fascinating man she had ever met with ; and, dying 
a few weeks afterwards, disgusted her numerous satellites 


132 


Henry Lyle. 


intensely, and surprised not a few, by leaving to Arthur Yere 
her property unconditionally. 

"When Yere was so informed, the same expression came over 
him as had attacked his features the first night he handed 
Miss Lyle into her carriage. He had of his own a large 
fortune, and that left him by the old lady was quite super- 
fluous. He assumed towards Lyle a feeling tone, which, 
although Henry could not have explained why, was most 
galling and impertinent. 

“ Most unlooked for !” he remarked, with reference to the 
will of Miss Lyle. “ There is no accounting for the whims of 
old women. I suppose she must have fallen in love with me ; 
but really it seems a great shame.” 

Lyle turned the subject as quiekly as he could, but Yere did 
not leave off thinking of it, and with his eyes he followed Lyle 
from spot to spot with no very pleasant expression, in which a 
tincture of triumph, not angelic, was strongly mixed. 

At this time there was published a pamphlet which made a 
sensation amongst all classes by the boldness of its infidelity 
and the utter recklessness of its principles, as well as by the 
talent displayed in its composition. It was without signature, 
and the fact of its author concealing his name gave a fresh 
interest to the publication itself. 

It was a challenge requiring refutation from every honest 
man ; nnd shortly after its issue such a refutation followed it. 
The answer created as great a stir as the original paper had 
done. It was couched in mild but decided terms, overthrowing 
most undeniably the statements contained in the infidel publi- 


Henry Lyle. 


133 


cation, setting forth from the first the falseness of the position 
occupied by its antagonist, and was frankly signed with the 
name of its author, Henry Lyle. The paper war now became 
one of general interest, and the universal talk of the clique 
wherein Yere and Lyle moved, at least. 

The Miss Delavilles were worked into a state of enthusiasm 
unusual even to them. 

Alone in his own room one evening, shortly after the publi- 
cation of the first pamphlet, and before the refutation of it had 
been seen by any, Yere opened a parcel which had been sent 
him by his publisher. It was the answer by Henry Lyle. 

He looked at the signature after having read the title, and 
exclaimed : 

“ What a fool to put his name to it ! He did not know with 
whom he has to deal, or he would have been less beautifully 
honest.” 

He slowly read the pamphlet through, and once or twice, as 
he did so, his face flushed and paled, but as he concluded and 
carefully placed it amongst his papers, there was a fixed look 
of determination on his features. 

“ You have brought all your brains to work upon it, and you 
have done it well, Henry Lyle ; but we shall see who is the 
stronger yet. Do you think you have here settled the question ? 

I threw down the gauntlet, and you have rashly taken it up. 

I am glad it is you have done , so ; I shall have more to say to 
you yet.” 

The lamp which had been burning upon the table here flick- 
ered, fell down into the socket, and after one or two ineffectual 


134 


Henry Lyle. 


struggles to revive, went out. Vere laid the paper which he 
was holding in his hand upon the desk, and groped for means 
of procuring a fresh light. But in the dark he could not find 
that which he sought, and, walking to the window, he drew 
aside the curtains, in order to admit the light of the moon to 
assist him in his search. It was long past midnight, and she 
was high in the heavens. As he stood against the window, 
with the curtain drawn, the full pale light fell across his face, 
and made whiter the hroad forehead which gleamed in contrast 
to the dark locks of his hair. To any man of taste or feeling 
so glorious an object must be arrestive — to an imaginative one, 
interesting. To the Christian who sees God in His works, the 
paths of heaven teach deeper lessons than any books upon 
astronomy can teach — lessons which lie too deeply in the heart 
ever to find full expression in words. On such a night as that 
upon which Yere looked come the waking dreams of the soul, 
proving to us each identically how true are all the things we 
have been taught by Him who “ binds the sweet influences of 
Pleiades, and looses the bands of Orion,” so that we cease to 
wonder that the patriarch of old left without hesitation the 
homes of his childhood to follow in a new way just taught him, 
when we remember that by Him he was led forth by night “ to 
look upon the stars.” 

On such a night, we, as men, sink into nothingness before 
our own thoughts. The very majesty of intellect, shown by its 
reaching to the heavens, crouches into dust under the consid- 
erations which itself has raised ; and our short life, which at 
another time will seem capable of comprising all our plans and 


Henry Lyle. 


135 


prospects, compresses into its true space, as a mere grain falling 
downwards with the never-ceasing rounds of eternity. 

On such a night rises in the heart a lovelier star than any 
even in the expanse of ether — the star of hope — the hope of all 
these things passing away, with the wrongs, and cries, and 
lamentations of humanity, when nothing shall come to jar upon 
the music of the spheres — the hope of right, which the world 
is ever vainly striving after, and for which “ the whole creation 
groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.” 

On such a night, does not this world, with its hopes, and 
fears, and pains, seem the distant unseen and only dreamt-of 
one, and the eternal world the stable foundation upon which 
our feet can ever rest securely ? These are not things of which 
only “ our fathers have told us,” or which “ we have heard 
with our ears,” but they seem to have been imbred in our 
heart of hearts, beyond the power of any circumstances to 
shock. So we think then ; and how is it when the day breaks, 
the sun shines, and the world begins to make a noise ? Then 
God retires to heaven with the stars and the moon, and yet He 
is the God of work, as much as the God of contemplation. We 
may close our eyes, or hide our heads, like the ostrich, but the 
Presence is still here. 

On this night also, as Miss Delaville entered her sleeping- 
room, the broad flood of light fell upon the floor, and before 
commencing to undress, she twitched the curtain across the 
window, saying to herself, 

“ I can’t bear that moon shining in upon me ; it will bo 
keeping me awake.” 


136 


Henry Lyle. 


That most ridiculous of men, Henry Lyle, who was always 
full of absurd fancies, also saw the moon, and drew the window- 
curtains open so as to admit the light, instead of shutting it out 
from view ; and fell asleep thinking of far-off scenes and days 
long gone by, as if that moonlight had had anything to do with 
them. 

And Yere, whom we left standing at the window of his 
study, looking out into the night ? There was no softening 
influence in the moon to him ; her pale face gazed reproach- 
fully into his, calling up half-memories of things which were 
or might have been ; yet there was an attraction in the very 
reproach she seemed to make him, for, with half-averted eyes, 
he still stood before the window, unmindful of the lamp which 
required relighting. Then a frown contracted the lines in his 
brow, and the pallor which from the first had overspread his 
face became sickly and unnatural. Hastily he closed the 
curtains to shut out.the light of that which had forced into his 
mind unbidden and unwelcome thoughts, and turned into the 
darkness. It was doubly dark by contrast with the bright 
light he had left, and alone, at that still hour of the night, 
Yere covered his face with his hands, and, like a child fright- 
ened at the creations of its own morbid fancy, he shook and 
trembled like a coward. 


Henry Lyle. 


137 


CHAPTER XVIII 


“Is Valentine Leigh any relation of yours, my dear 
Augusta 1 ?”, asked Miss Delaville, one morning. 

Augusta started, and exclaimed, “ My brother !” 

“ How very odd,” rejoined the lady. “ Did you not know 
he is in town ? I met him to-day in Bond street, and it struck 
me since the name is the same as yours.” 

Augusta felt ashamed that things should be so, and she tried 
to imagine that her brother could not be aware of her nearness 
to himself. • 

“ I have not seen him for years,” she answered quickly. 
“ He does not, probably, know that I am here.” 

“ Not seen him for years ! How very strange,” continued 
Miss Delaville, somewhat disagreeably. “ What could be tho 
reason, my dear Augusta ?” 

“ He has been abroad,” answered Augusta, coldly ; and 
feeling the question of Miss Delaville impertinent, she made 


138 


Henry Lyle. 


an excuse for leaving the room. As usual, in every difficulty 
of whatever kind, Henry Lyle was her resource. She begged 
of him at once to discover Yalentine, and to send him to Mrs. 
Seymour’s house. Henry was not long in doing so, and the 
following day he himself accompanied the young man to see 
his sister. Augusta gazed with a strange interest upon the 
brother she had not seen for years. He was hut a grown-up 
image of the boy she so distinctly remembered. It seemed to 
her that she would have known him anywhere, meeting him 
by chance. 

Yalentine was rather awkward at this their first interview. 
Probably the consciousness of the little effort he had made to 
discover his sister, or the cool manner in which he had taken 
possession of every little thing left by their father, regardless 
of her comfort, confused him ; or the recollection of the very 
unpleasant associations which must be in Augusta’s mind 
accompanying the remembrance of their parting, years ago. 

Yalentine Leigh was an interesting-looking young man ; 
very fair, and with agreeable features, but the lower part of 
his face gave an unpleasant trait of weakness and indeter- 
mination — the falling backwards of the under-jaw when the 
face was at rest— an indecision which was also implied by the 
uncertainty of his modes of expression in speaking. 

It was a new interest to Augusta, reviving all the recollec- 
tions of her childhood, and she with enthusiasm gave free 
scope to the fresh affection which the sight of her brother 
awakened. 

From thenceforth, Yalentine lived more at Mrs. Seymour’s 


Henry Lyle. 


139 


house than elsewhere. It was easy to make excuses to his 
sister for not having exerted himself to find her before ; easy to 
persuade her that it was no want of affection which prompted 
to so unaffectionate a course. Augusta believed all readily 
which told in his favour, and forgot to reproach him for his 
prolonged unkindness and neglect of their father — a subject 
which Valentine himself carefully avoided ever alluding to. 

And yet Augusta could not help feeling that the society of 
her brother was not congenial to her. There was a want of 
refinement of feeling about him, a prejudiced style of thought, 
although that very prejudice was towards what he considered 
to be freedom of opinion. 

He requested one_ day to bring to Mrs. Seymour’s house his 
particular friend, Mr. Clough Harding, “ the very best fellow 
in the world. By-the-by, Gussy,” added he, “I wish you had 
not engaged yourself to that stiff fellow Lyle ; Harding is just 
the man I should have liked you to marry.” 

Augusta coloured and felt annoyed at her Lyle being called 
a “ stiff fellow ;” but Valentine was her brother, and she made 
no answer; while Mrs. Seymour gave him the desired per- 
mission to bring his friend to her house. 

When Mr. Clough Harding was introduced, Augusta was 
not influenced in his favour, for he seemed to her but an 
exaggeration or caricature of all her brother’s worst features. 
The gentleman was vulgarly latitudinarian in principles, 
language, and appearance, and it was with some warmth 
that, upon her opinion being asked, Augusta afterwards 
expressed to her brother her dislike to such a style of man and 


140 


Henry Lyle. 


her fear that the evident influence he exercised over him 
might he prejudicial to Valentine himself. 

“ Oh, that’s one of Lyle’s absurd notions, you know,” said 
Valentine. “ You have been taking a leaf out of his book. 
Harding is a capital fellow — the best fellow in the world.” 

The “capital fellow” seemed very much attached to his 
friend Leigh in all sorts of ways. They Were continually 
together ; Harding being the substance, Valentine the shadow. 

Valentine more than once alluded to difficulties under 
which he lay ; and one day Augusta asked of him an explana- 
tion of his hints, and the whole matter came out. He had 
gamed away every sixpence which his father had left, having 
contracted debts almost beyond that sum, and he was ready to 
cry as he explained to his sister that he did not know what he 
was to do next, for he had no money even to go on with. 

“It is to the gaming-table, then, that you go every 
evening ?” inquired Augusta, “ when you tell us that you have 
engagements ?” 

Valentine answered in the affirmative. 

“ And Mr. Clough Harding is your companion I presume ?” 
said Augusta. 

“Yes.” 

His sister looked so plainly disgusted, that Valentine added : 

“ Come, Clough Harding is a very good fellow, Gussy ; I do 
not know what I should have done without him. I now owe him 
more than anybody else. He has continually lent me money.” 

“And, I presume, continually increases the debt?” suggested 
Augusta. 


Henry Lyle. 


141 


Valentine Leigh looked angry, and answered, “ Come, it’s 
not every man who will lend a fellow money in these days ?” 

“Now, Val,” said his sister, “tell me why Mr. Harding has 
lent you money. Is it not in order to play ?” 

“ "Well !” answered he. 

“Do you think that in so doing he acts the part of a friend 
towards you?” asked Augusta. 

Valentine looked sulky, and gave no answer, for he had 
none to give ; but shortly afterwards commenced afresh lament- 
ing his unfortunate position, and vainly wishing he could “ do 
something.” 

"When Augusta recapitulated alb that had passed to Lyle, he 
fully coincided with her with respect to Mr. Clough Harding, 
and as to the advisability of weakening as much as possible 
the intimacy between him and Valentine Leigh. 


142 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Yet it was difficult to determine in what manner Valentine 
Leigh could he employed, if indeed he were found willing to 
work at all ; and this point was the first to be ascertained. 

Valentine Leigh did not like Lyle: this feeling he had 
evinced upon several occasions, and the object of his prejudice 
was not unaware that it existed. Yet the knowledge of the 
difficulties to be overcome did not deter him from the attempt. 
Perhaps he remembered, in his reflections upon the subject, 
the weakness of character displayed by young Leigh, and upon 
this fact built, and rightfully, his hopes of success. 

The very first opportunity given him was taken advantage 
of by Lyle. 

Both Valentine and he, after spending an evening at Mrs. 
Seymour’s house, prepared to return home : they stood together 
in the hall. Valentine looked uncomfortable at the collision, 
yet when they left the house, Lyle observed, 


Henry Lyle. 


143 


“ We can walk together as far as you go.” 

Valentine became restless, but he murmured something 
which Lyle chose to take as an assent, and together they 
walked in silence for some minutes. 

“ Do you think of remaining in England ?” asked Lyle. 

“ I do not know, I am sure,” answered Valentine ; “I know 
nothing as yet of what I intend doing.” 

The reply was given rather sulkily ; but Lyle, without 
appearing to notice his disinclination to friendliness, resumed : 

“ Your sister seems anxious about your future plans, Val- 
entine : now, as I am, or shall be very soon, so closely 
connected with Augusta, and consequently with yourself, you 
must allow me also to take an interest in what you intend 
doing. 1 ’ 

Valentine gave no answer. Had he done so, it probably 
would have been to the effect that he did not desire any 
interest to be taken in his affairs on the part of Henry Lyle. 

“I am an older man than you, Valentine, by several years,” 
continued Lyle ; “ and perhaps I may be better able to judge 
of your position than you can yourself : now I am well aware 
that at present you stand in some difficulty.” 

“I think sir,” commenced Valentine Leigh, in a defiant 
tone, — but Henry Lyle turned round short upon him, and 
looked him in the face with such evident astonishment, that 
the young man altered his voice, and added, “ Augusta, I 
suppose, has been speaking to you about my affairs — that’s the 
worst of it ; I might have known that she would I never 
told you anything of this.” 


144 


Henry Lyle. 


“Why should you object to my knowing it?” asked Lyle. 
“ I have not inquired into your affairs from mere curiosity and 
idleness, but in the hope that I may be able to help you. Can 
I not do so ?” 

“ I do not ask anybody to help me,” answered Valentine, 
moodily. 

“Can you help yourself out of the scrape, then?” Lyle asked. 

“ I do not know.” 

“ You do know,” Lyle answered, resuming the authority 
which his real superiority might justly give him, although it 
was done almost unconsciously to himself; “you cannot help 
yourself. You are in an irremediable difficulty, if you are not 
assisted. You know that you are very much in debt; that 
your creditor would be by no means a lenient one, were you in 
his power. You know in your own heart, Valentine, that Mr. 
Clough Harding is not a true friend to you. You are very 
well aware that before long you will be in the Bench.” 

Valentine had turned his head aside, so that Lyle should not 
see his face as he listened, but he started several times during 
Henry’s speech, showing that he was not overstating his 
liabilities. 

“ Is not all this true ?” asked Lyle, after a pause. 

“ Who told it all to you ?” Valentine asked in return. 

“ Never mind ; it is sufficient that it is so, and that I know 
it. Now, Valentine, the next thing to be thought of is, how 
can it be prevented ?” , 

“ How can it be prevented ?” echoed the young man, in a 
crying voice. 


Henry Lyle. 


145 


“As a first step, you must cease your intimacy with Mr. 
Clough Harding.” 

“ And what else V ’ asked Valentine, sulkily. 

“ You must abandon the habits, which have brought you 
into your present difficulty.” 

“ Anything more ?” 

“ And you must try to support yourself as an honest man 
and a gentleman.” 

“ I must say you are rather cool,” said Valentine, in an 
insolent manner ; “I do not know that I ever asked you to 
look after my affairs, or to interfere in any way with me.” 

“ And you consider the interference impertinent, you would 
say,” suggested Lyle. 

“ Yes,” said Valentine. 

“ I should have thought otherwise, when the interference is 
an offer of assistance, Valentine ; but perhaps my way of 
advising you may have been unpleasant. At any rate, think 
of what I have said : you must acknowledge that my sugges- 
tions are right ; do you not ? You have too much good sense 
to object to them.” 

Valentine would have objected to them out of obstinacy, 
had he been able ; but this allusion to his good sense placed 
him on his guard, and he answered, 

“ Yes, I suppose you are right ; but ” 

“ Never mind the ‘but, 5 ” said Lyle. “This is your way, 
is.it not?” he continued,, stopping at the corner of a street. 
“I will here wish you good night; I shall see you again 
to-morrow, I suppose.” And Lyle turned down another way, 


146 


Henry Lyle. 


towards his own lodging, leaving Valentine gazing stupidly 
after him. 

Young Leigh felt restive, like a young colt suddenly pulled 
m, who did not as yet choose to acknowledge the right of the 
reins which controlled him. He fretted over the conversation 
of that evening, tried to persuade himself that Lyle was a fool, 
but his better sense denied the suggestion. He could not help 
acknowledging that he had met with greatly his superior in 
his brother-elect. He took refuge in feeding the dislike which 
he felt, or supposed that he felt towards Lyle, but the kindness 
shown in the latter’s manner and voice that evening rose in 
judgment against Valentine, and he went to bed with a very 
mixed feeling, which he could not himself explain. He had 
half promised to meet Clough Harding that night, in order to 
carry out some project of folly or wrong, but he abandoned the 
idea, as if now he did not dare fulfil the engagement. He felt 
as if his movements would be known. By whom? By Lyle ? 
"Why should he care what Lyle knew of him, or thought of 
him ? He was not afraid of Lyle, he supposed : and this 
thought chafed him more than any other. Yet he did care 
sufficiently to stay at home, and go to bed respectably, making 
some paltry excuse to himself for his change of resolution — an 
excuse which he tried hard to believe, but could not; and 
throughout the night his dreams were enlivened with visions 
of the gaming-table and the Bench, which would make him 
start in terror at the prospect. 


Henry Lyle. 


147 


CHAPTER XX. 


As Lyle had prophesied, so it came to pass, not many days 
after the foregoing interview. Valentine Leigh was in the 
Queen’s Bench : there was nothing more to he got from him, 
and his dear friend Clough Harding was his prosecutor. 

A more pitiable object could scarcely be imagined than 
Valentine Leigh, as he was left alone, after having been con- 
ducted to his new place of residence. His face pale with 
apprehension and annoyance, his frame listless and unnerved, 
himself totally unmanly and unmanned, he sat down upon one 
of the two rickety chairs which ornamented his little room ; 
and laying his head upon the creaking heavy table, he burst 
into tears. 

“ What should he do now? what was to become of him ? to 
whom should he apply? who cared whether he was in tho 
Bench or no?” were thoughts whiph passed through his mind. 
He remembered how Henry Lyle had told him of all this before. 


J 48 


Henry Lyle. 


At this memory Valentine commenced crying again. It was 
not all spite that Lyle had been in the right, for a better feel- 
ing mixed with his cause for tears. 

“ What on earth will Lyle think?” he asked himself. So he 
had begun already to care for the opinion of the man whose 
advice had given him such umbrage. 

“ I will write to Gussy, and tell her what has happened,” 
said he ; “hut then she will go and tell Lyle* I know. What 
shall I do ? Yet, anyhow, he must know it before long.” 
And with this thought Valentine demanded a sheet of paper 
and other necessaries, and writing an almost illegible note to 
Augusta, desired that it might he sent at Once. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent by him in great lowness 
of spirits, expecting momentarily some note in answer to his 
own : when, as the evening came on, there was a knock at his 
door, and upon his calling out “ Come in,” Henry Lyle entered. 

Valentine Leigh blushed so visibly, even in the dusk, at his 
appearance, that Lyle said, 

“ Are you surprised at seeing me, Valentine ? I was with 
Augusta at the time she received your note, and I thought it 
would be better to come than write.” 

Valentine looked awkward and uncomfortable, and Lyle 
resumed : 

“Augusta knew no one else whom she could send to you. 
Perhaps she might have fixed upon a less unwelcome messen- 
ger ; hut. let us put aside all private feelings, Valentine. Let 
us he friends, if we can. Will you tell me the reason why you 
Uslike me?” 


Henry Lyle. 


149 


Valentine started at the feeling, which he imagined he had 
concealed studiously, being touched upon, and answered 
quickly : 

V Dislike you ! what could give you that idea ? Iam sure 
I do not dislike you. I ” 

“ Have you dined ?” asked Lyle. 

“ No, I forgot. I have been thinking of other things,” said 
Valentine, unable to recover himself from Lyle’s attack. 

“ Then,” said Henry, “ if you will allow me, I shall order 
some dinner for you ; for you will not mend matters by starving 
yourself.” He left the room for a few minutes, and when he 
returned, Valentine rejoined, 

si "What made you say I dislike you, Lyle ?” 

“ Never mind,” answered the other, laughing ; “ I hope I was 
mistaken, and that you do not do so, or will not henceforth do 
so. And now, until your dinner is ready, I must, however un- 
pleasant to you, my dear Valentine, speak of your affairs. Surely 
this is no time for concealment. Will you not tell me to what 
extent you are involved ? I may perhaps be able to free you.” 

“ You ?” asked Valentine Leigh, with unfeigned surprise. 

“ Why not I ?” said Henry Lyle. 

“ Because, Lyle, I have always — in fact, I have never 
acted as a friend towards you. You do not mean to say that 
you would trouble yourself really in getting me out of this 
scrape ?” said Valentine. 

“I have told you that I will help you as far as I can ; it is 
with that intention that I came here to-night. I first informed 
Augusta of my plan, and she urged me to carry it out ; for I 


150 


Henry Lyle. 


considered that I should not he justified in helping any one, 
even her brother, pecuniarily, without her consent ; for already, 
virtually, my property is not entirely my own. 'Will you teli 
me how much your debts amount to, and we shall then see 
whether I can set you right.” 

Valentine still hesitated ; his nobler feelings were struggling 
within him, and the tears which he had used rather freely 
during the day, were very nearly coming again. When he 
could command his voice sufficiently to speak, he said, 

“ No, Lyle, you shall not assist me. I have injured you in 
thought. I have tried to dislike you, although I could not 
have given myself a reason for so doing. I will not now 
benefit myself at your expense.” 

“ Do you know, Val, that you will distress me very much if 
you refuse my offer,” said Henry. 

The other looked surprised, and Lyle added, 

“ It will seem to me as if your pride prevented your will- 
ingly accepting what you consider an obligation, which would 
argue that your dislike towards me is not yet turned to friend- 
ship.” 

“ I wish you would not think I dislike you, Lyle,” said 
Valentine, impetuously : “ indeed I do not. I bear a veiy dif- 
ferent feeling towards you now, whatever I might once have 
had. Won’t you believe me?” 

Lyle held out his hand to the young man, and again Val- 
entine’s eyes filled, but this time with no feeling which need 
have made him blush for his emotion. 

“Then it is all right, is it not?” asked Lyle, cheerfully: 


Henry Lyle. 


15 : 


“ we are to be friends as well as brothers. You make me out 
an estimate of your debts this evening, and we will see 
whether you cannot be free in a few days. Come ! nonsense, 
Val : some day you shall do as much for me, if I am hard up 
and you are a rich man,” said he, as Valentine took his hand 
and wrung it, unable to speak. “ Good night ! I will see you 
to-morrow morning, if nothing prevents.” And Lyle left the 
Bench. 

Several opprobrious epithets which had by Mr. Harding 
been applied to Henry Lyle, and which had been echoed by 
himself, recurred to the mind of Valentine Leigh, and brought 
a blush to his face during that evening ; but he tried to wipe 
away the remembrance of them, and atone to his own con- 
science, by repeating several times to himself, “ I was mistaken 
in him; he certainly is the very best fellow in the world. 
Clough Harding always was a fool : what did he mean by 
telling me things against Lyle ?” 


152 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XXL 


The idea of Mr. Grant occurred to Lyle’s mind, when think- 
ing 1 what situation could he procured for Valentine Leigh. 
That gentleman had always maintained his friendship for Lyle, 
taken an interest in his movements, and kept up a communica- 
tion with him ; hut Henry had never claimed the often-repeated 
offers of assistance made hy Mr. Grant. 

He waited on him after business hours one day, and upon 
informing him of the reason of his visit, saying that he had a 
favour to ask of him, Mr. Grant at once expressed his readiness 
to do him any kindness he might require, only venturing a hope 
that the favour was one to himself. 

“ No, that it is not,” Lyle answered. “ It is in hehalf of 
Valentine Leigh, who, as I dare say you may have heard, has 
lately been rather imprudent, and very much misled, and has 
placed himself in a difficulty.” 


Henry Lyle. 


153 


“ What, the brother of your lady-love ?” 

“ Exactly,” said Lyle, 

“ I thought that you had been paying off his debts for him, 
young scamp ! in a most unexampled spirit of generosity,” said 
Mr. Grant, laughing. 

Lyle coloured as he answered, “ It was not in reference to 
his debts that I would ask your assistance, sir. He has prom- 
ised to work, and I am unable to get him any situation. I 
hoped that you might give him employment.” 

“ Well, so I will, for your sake : but I hope he will turn out 
more of a business-man than you were, Henry — eh? You 
never took to the ledger.” 

“ No, I confess I was, and am, uncommonly dull at such 
things,” said Lyle, laughing : “ I trust Leigh will go on better 
than I did. I am afraid that I am scarcely the person to give 
a business-character to any one. Valentine promises to work 
hard ; and if he only can be kept from evil influence, I believe 
he will keep his word.” 

“But I say, Henry,” observed Mr. Grant, after a pause; “it 
must have been rather awkward for you to pay that young fel- 
low’s debts. It must leave you, I. am afraid, rather low.” 

“ It leaves me without anything to fall back upon, certainly,” 
said Lyle ; “ but I must work ; and hope that we shall not feel 
the loss of what is gone.V 

Mr. Grant laid his hand on Lyle’s shoulder affectionately. 

“ Well, tell young Leigh that it is all right, and I will not 

overwork him ; but you need not tell him that, or he will think 

there is nothing to do ; let him come to me, and I will set him 

7 * 


154 


Henry Lyle. 


going. I am glad of an opportunity of obliging you, Henry. 
By-the-by, do you see where I have hung your picture ? Not 
a very good light, you will say ; but the windows are awk- 
wardly placed, and I shall move it into the dining-room as soon 
as I can, after we have new-papered it.” 

Lyle told Valentine Leigh that “it was all right;” and the 
latter, full of gratitude to Henry, and expressions of contrition 
which he believed sincere, and determining to grow better for 
the future — his debts being paid, and himself free to start 
afresh, having solemnly abjured Mr. Clough Harding and his 
fraternity — entered on his new avocations ; having been sharply 
scrutinized by Mr. Grant previous to so doing, in order that he 
might be properly inspired with respect and awe, Mr. Grant 
having come to a very shrewd conjecture as to wherein the 
young man’s weakness lay. 

Henry Lyle was aware that, for the time at least, he had 
gained an influence over the mind of Valentine. This influ- 
ence was acknowledged by the younger man, and Lyle would 
not neglect the opportunity thus given him of impressing upon 
his memory the obligations, which hitherto Valentine had 
seemed to forget. 

The evening before entering upon his new avocations — new 
in every sense to Valentine, in that he had been unused to 
exertion, excepting in a bad cause — he spent at the house of 
Henry Lyle. To hear the young man speak, a casual judge 
would have imagined that every better feeling of his heart had 
started into action to fulfill the obligations which now rested 
upon him. 


Henry Lyle. 


155 


“ I will, Lyle, I can assure you, work like a horse if 
necessary. I will give up my former way of living, and be 
respectable, and quiet, and orderly. I shall never forget your 
kindness to me in my late difficulty; and you may depend 
upon me, that I will keep my promise to you, for your sake.” 

The assurances were large, but Henry Lyle laid them to 
the exaggerated feelings which Valentine at the time was 
experiencing, and let them pass unnoticed ; but he remarked 
upon the conclusion of the foregoing speech, 

“Not for my sake only, I trust, Val : for your own sake 
also ; but above all, for the sake of your duty. We must build 
up higher motives than pleasing each other merely, or we shall 
find our principles fail us when we most require them.” 

“ Oh ! I make no profession of high principle, you know, 
Lyle ; I never have. I suppose I have not any.” 

“ I do not know exactly what you mean, Valentine. How 
do you make no profession of principle ?” said Lyle. 

“ Why people who make great professions, you know, may 
be expected to be more particular ; but I never have professed 
anything,” Valentine answered. 

“Do you not then consider yourself a responsible man? 
asked Lyle. 

Valentine coloured slightly, and answered, 

“ Why, yes, I suppose we all are.” 

“ I think you are not singular in your very absurd way of 
reasoning; for, excuse me Valentine, it is extremely absurd. 
No one man makes, or can make, greater profession than 
another. We all make the same profession ; all are required 


156 


Henry Lyle. 


to live by the same rule, and will all have to be judged by the 
same law.” 

Valentine looked uneasy and fidgeted in his seat, as he was 
ever wont to do when the conversation took any turn which 
was beyond the every-day common-places. After a pause, 
seeing that Henry Lyle waited, as if for him to answer, he said, 

“ But some men profess to be much better than the rest of 
the world, and of course, therefore, they are expected to live 
more strictly than those who do not pretend to such up- 
rightness.” 

“ You are still going on in the same popular mistake. To 
come to facts, Valentine : we have all been baptized into the 
same army, all have taken the same oath of allegiance, in the 
very same words. That oath is not more binding upon one 
than upon another. Some may keep it better than others, but 
still the oath has been taken ; we are still sworn soldiers and 
servants, however we may live contrary to our profession. I 
repeat, one man cannot profess more than another, for the 
obligation we take upon ourselves is the very highest and 
strictest. You have professed, and do, as a living and baptized 
man, profess as much as the most exalted saint on earth. You 
cannot get out of it, Valentine, by any such trivial excuses as 
you just now made.” 

“ But some men are not so strict as others, you know, Lyle, 
and acknowledge that they are not.” 

“What has that to do with the argument? That is quite 
another thing. Some men, unhappily , are infidels, and ac- 
knowledge themselves to be so, but their profession is the -same 


Henry Lyle. 


157 


still, although they live as far from it as they possibly can. If 
men would hut learn, in these days of enlightenment and 
universal inquiry, to understand the meaning of their own 
words, which they are continually using without a thought of 
their real weight, it would he a step forward. But, Valentine, 
we are all of us, at best, very Chinese. We think in the rules 
laid down by our predecessors. Our grandfathers did foolishly, 
and so we continue fools in many respects, continuing to hold 
the had old customs, calling them, in our listlessness, good ; and 
the very worst of all, depend upon it, is the blindness to 
ourselves. Our fathers ate, drank, and died, refusing to know 
themselves because the knowledge was unpleasant; and we 
still shut our eyes to the fact that more is required of us than 
of mere animals. We will not learn ourselves, because it is still, 
as it ever will he, a tedious and a disagreeable hitter lesson ; hut 
it will he a far more painful one when, having been neglected 
through life, it has to he learned in a few days, perhaps a few 
hours, on a death-bed ; or a fearful one, should it hurst upon 
us in the twinkling of an eye, wheh the studying time is 
passed, and the great examination has come ” 


158 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Augusta had left off her mourning for her father, and the 
day of her marriage with Henry Lyle drew near. She had 
engaged herself to him with the full consciousness of his posi- 
tion. As he himself had said, she knew him to be one of the 
working classes. Perhaps in her love and the enthusiasm of 
youth, the cares of labour were not entirely appreciated by Au- 
gusta ; but they were again and again represented to her by 
Lyle, and it was with the full intention of being in all respects 
a help to him that she pledged herself to be his wife. 

“The world, perhaps, will not exonerate me, Augusta,” Lyle 
said, one morning, “ for rashly bringing upon you the risk of 
poverty, for you know my way of life. I must work for the 
daily bread we shall require. Will you-, with 'all these things 
presented to you, still brave all, and be my wife ?” 

“What else can I do, Henry ?” answered sh6, laughing to 
avoid the seriousness which she felt coming upon her. “ I have 


Henry Lyle. 


159 


no choice ; if you will not marry me I must become a beggar, 
for Mrs. Seymour cannot be expected to go on keeping me 
much longer.” 

Then, looking up into his face, she continued, “What is pov- 
erty ? Want of luxuries all my life I have been accustomed to. 
You know how we lived when my father was alive. It will 
be from no recollections of splendour or even ease that you will 
take me. But what is poverty?” she repeated; “do you think 
I should be poor if we could but even, as you say, procure our 
daily bread, that being honestly earned, so long as you were 
with me ? Should I be rich, Henry, if I had all my mind can 
think of wealth, without you ? The moment I am yours, I own 
the greatest treasure which my heart can conceive earthly ; 
you could not more endow me. Poverty and wealth appear 
but empty words, made only for those whose hearts are incapa- 
ble of loving as we love.” 

“ You think so, dearest ?” he answered, looking earnestly 
into her face. 

“ Am I not rich if I have to work with my hands, so long as 
your smile urges me on ? What will it influence me if all the 
world despise us because we are poor ? You, Henry, are my 
world ; your pleasure my object ; your life my life ; your 
approving eyes the only earthly praise that I should seek ; your 
fame and advance my glory ; all ambition merged in you, all 
pride in the hope of seeing you happy.” 

“ And yet, Augusta, my own loved Augusta.” said Henry 
Lyle, drawing her to him, and holding his arm round her as he 


160 


Henry Lyle. 


spoke, “ would not this he styled romance, high-flown want of 
thought and prudence for the future ?” 

“Do you think it so, Henry ?” 

“It is what I might have expected you to say, and what 
makes me almost fearful, in the pleasure which it gives me, 
hearing it,” he answered. 

“ Then, let it he styled what it may,” said Augusta, “ I 
spoke hut the feeling of my heart.” 

“And shall we then, Augusta, strive to serve God together? 
struggling perhaps, suffering it may he, hut struggling honestly, 
suffering patiently and hopefully, and with high objects ever 
urging us on ?” 

“ Yes, together,” she answered ; “ there can he no suffering 
deserving of the name while we are together. Oh ! my Lyle, 
there is nothing on earth I dread hut separation ! There can 
he no pain hut to part, no trial hut what is hearahle cheerfully 
while with you : nothing is difficult, if hut you are with me. 
I was left an orphan, and the tears I shed were honest tears 
of regret ; your love dried them, and taught me to submit. 
When Philip, the companion of my childhood, the last link of 
my old home, was taken from me, you had proved to me that 
it was better so : and did I murmur ? You taught me first to 
feel there is a God, where before I only knew it : teach me to 
serve Him with you.” 


Henry Lyle. 


161 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“Is it true asked Vere, suddenly, finding himself alone 
with Augusta, “that you are shortly to he married to that 
man ?” 

“ Quite true,” Augusta answered. “ You have known for 
some time past that I intend doing so.” 

“ You are rash, Augusta. I have warned you before now, 
and I do so again, that you will repent the course you take.” 

“ How very absurd you are, Mr. Yere ! Can you imagine 
for a moment that any warnings, threats, or forebodings on 
your part, could alter my determination to marry a man to 
whom I have been long engaged, and whom I love and 
honour ?” 

She looked him full in the face as she spoke, and his eyes 
presently fell before hers, and he rejoined : 

“ Absurd do you call it ? That man has crossed me where 
I will not submit to opposition ; he has been my evil influence 


162 


Henry Lyle. 


since I first saw him. As a child, he was ever between me 
and my plans, and as a man he has pursued the same course.” 

“He might have been your good influence, had you chosen,” 
said Augusta. 

“ He! You might have been, and might be still, Augusta; 
he never. I hate him, as a disappointed and injured man only 
can hate, and you shall learn to hate the memory of having 
linked yourself with him.” 

“ I think you miscalculate, Mr. Yere : besides, I do not 
consider you have the power to injure him or me, as you seem 
to suppose.” 

“Do you think not?” said he;, “cannot I then injure you 
through him? You profess to love him. You would not 
love as the generality of women, Augusta, I believe.” He 
pressed his hand to his forehead, as if the words he spoke 
pained him extremely. 

“ You believe I love him, and yet you think to frighten me 
from clinging to him ?” she asked. 

“ I am an inconsistent fool,” he answered. 

“ I do believe you love him ; and the thought maddens me ; 

I cannot tell a lie to you.” 

He paused, then presently rejoined : “ Cannot I injure him, 
do you think ? Have I not already commenced my revenge ? 
Whose was that old woman’s property rightfully but his : and 
whose did it become, and by whose agency ?” 

“ Was it then you who deprived Henry Lyle of his interest 
with his grand-aunt?” asked Augusta. 

“ Who else ?” returned Yere. 


Henry Lyle. 


163 


Augusta shuddered. “ What an unhappy man you must 
be !” exclaimed she, as if thinking aloud. 

“ Happiness, August^,” said he, gravely, still persisting in 
calling her by her Christian name, as if he had a right in her 
— “ happiness is but a fancy, a name : it dwells in prospective, 
and in the retrospect, but it is never present. Men are thought 
and styled happy by each other ; but what one amongst them 
can say of himself, ‘ I am happy V and even that fancy, that 
name of happiness, is but comparative. We do not understand 
the word which one man uses as the same idea we would 
express ourselves. Happiness cannot be, while man is possessed 
of hopes beyond fulfillment, and desires ever increasing. You 
mistake ; I am as happy as I could ever be.” 

“ Impossible !” she returned, “ with a heart filled with such 
thoughts as yours, a head with such plans.” 

“ Happiness,” he continued, unnoticing her interruption, “ is 
of our own making. If I say * I will be happy,’ I am so.” 

She sighed, and shook her head sadly, as she looked at his 
beautiful face, lighted up with the triumph of an evil angel, 
and as she did so, he added, in the sentiments of that angel, 

“ Never fear but I shall make my hell a heaven !” 

“You acknowledge that it is a hell, then?” said Augusta, 
quickly. 

He knit his brows. She added : 

“ I hope not, for your own sake, Mr. Vere.” 

“ Surely,” said he, gently, “ that is an unkind wish on your 
part, Augusta.” 

“ The kindest towards you,” she answered ; “ for I fear, did 


164 


Henry Lyle. 


you succeed in forgetting Reality, by which means alone you 
could make yourself a Heaven here with your present wishes, 
if all went smoothly with you, and while all the world flatters 
you, that you will never learn yourself.” 

“ Learn myself!” he repeated. “ Do you not think I know 
myself?” 

“ Do you ?” asked she. 

“ Oh, Augusta,” exclaimed Yere, in a burst of passionate 
feeling, “would I knew less of myself! for indeed it is a 
hateful study. You make me speak the truth against my own 
worse nature — you make me forget the character I would 
assume, and be at times, almost honest.” 

“Why assume any character? why not be yourself?” 
Augusta asked, earnestly. 

“ Because,” he replied, “ my self is hateful to me.’’ 

The door opened, and Mrs. Seymour entered, and as she did 
so Yere held out his hand to her gaily, to wish her good morn- 
ing, while Mrs. Seymour was profuse in her regrets that she 
had not been informed that Mr. Yere was in the drawing-room, 
that she might have joined them earlier. 

So Augusta and Henry Lyle were married, with no fears 
upon Augusta’s side — no regrets, excepting that her cousin 
Philip was not with them at the time. 

The Miss Delavilles had “ taken up ” the interests of Lyle 
and Augusta, so they were enthusiastic in their delight at the 
marriage, and in their admiration of all connected with it, as 
also in their professions of friendship. No sooner were they 
married than Lyle returned, with redoubled vigour, to his work. 


Henry Lyle. 


1G6 

Mr. Arthur Yere found that he had an engagement to an 
old friend, and left town a few days previous to Augusta’s 
wedding, after having greatly distressed his mother by looking 
pale and careworn. She strove by every means to discover 
wherein lay the cause of his illness, hut in vain ; every inquiry 
on her part was met by her son with short, rude answers, and 
she watched him earnestly from day to day with trembling 
nervousness, the tears occasionally filling her eyes as she 
thought her darling’s health was in danger. He left town 
without telling Mrs. Yere that he was going, and she continued 
mourning, for him, thinking of him alone, and fretting because 
of his paleness. 

Mrs. Seymour was a woman of great kindness of disposition, 
and from the first she had guessed pretty accurately the posi- 
tion in which Mrs. Yere stood to her son. She had too much 
perception to allow such a conjecture on her part to be 
perceived by Mrs. Yere ; but the sympathy she felt in the poor 
lady’s loneliness she evinced by kind acts and words, by 
visiting her, and sitting for hours patiently listening to the 
praises of Arthur, and, when she could honestly, joining in them- 

Mrs. Yere would sometimes, even in the midst of these fond 
dwellings on her son, glance jealously towards her hearer, as 
if she feared that Mrs. Seymour might not entirely agree with 
her in her praises, or might imagine that her partiality led her 
beyond the bounds of her own belief ; and in the glance there 
was a species of defiance of any one daring to question, even in 
thought, the truth of all she said, or daring to remember, above 
all, that A jthur Yere was an unkind son and an unprincipled man. 


166 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


There was a touch of romance in beginning life in so inde- 
pendent a manner, literally working for support, and economis- 
ing in a way almost ludicrous ; for the late settlement of Val- 
entine Leigh’s debts left Henry Lyle considerably poorer than 
he had expected to be. 

To those who may look upon affluence as happiness, and 
poverty, as the world calls it, the reverse, the high spirits of 
Henry Lyle and Augusta might have appeared rather surpris- 
ing. It was not that they dreamed away their days in castle- 
building for the future, or spent their time in inane 
repetitions of love and constancy. Augusta became at once a 
housekeeper during the morning, while Lyle worked at his 
easel, and in the evening thfe companion of' her husband in his 
duties or recreations. 

“What a number of poor people you seem to know, Henry !” 
remarked she one day, in a walk, during which Lyle had been 
saluted by a great many of the people. 


Henry Lyle. 


167 


“ Some of the poor people, as you call them, Gussy, may be 
richer than we are. I do know a great many of the lower 
orders, and of poor people also in the real sense. I never miss 
an opportunity of making acquaintance with anybody who is 
thrown in my way ; for it has seemed to me ridiculous that we 
should all be living in the same world, made in the same im- 
age, and of one blood, and yet know so little of each other. 
There is no necessity for formal introductions amongst the 
working classes, so I take advantage of the absence of 
etiquette.” 

“ I thought you used to be so shy, Henry,” said Augusta, 
smiling. 

“Iam quite as shy now, Gussy, dear, as I ever was,” said 
he ; “ but a natural infirmity does not obviate the necessity of 
my acting up to my opinions of right. It must be a great 
advantage to have assurance, certainly.” 

“I wish you would let me go with you, and become 
acquainted with all your friends; will you, Henry?” asked 
Augusta. 

“ Will you like to know them all, and feel a sympathy in 
their advance and welfare, Gussy ? I had hoped you would. 
It makes this world a much more interesting world, to know 
and be known by many, even of the poorest faces, that you 
meet.” 

“ May I help you if I can, Harry, at least in caring for 
them ?” asked Augusta. 

He gave her no answer but by a look, and after a pause she 
said : 


168 


Henry Lyle. 


“ But yet what can I do ? I have all the desire, at least 1 
think and hope so, Henry, to he of use to others ; hut when I 
calmly dwell upon the subject, remembering what an immense 
world this is, and what an atom one individual in it must he, 
I can but repeat over and over again the question, ‘ "What good 
can I do ?’ almost hopeless of a satisfactory answer.” 

“ Gussy, if you have already asked yourself the question, you 
may be sure the answer will be shown you practically before 
long. A man or woman never yet, I believe, honestly desired 
to live for others, but occasions sprung up under his or her feet, 
and those who have appeared to themselves the humblest and 
most useless of created human beings have often become the 
very Howards of society, through the ardent wish which has 
actuated their feelings and actions to lessen in some degree the 
distress around them. Yet should the occasion never come, 
should we never live to realize those dreams which the heart is 
ever forming afresh — who would part with a desire, such as 
you have just expressed, Augusta, though it might remain 
always a wish only ?” 

“ The old proverb, ‘ Virtue is its own reward/ which our 
copy-books teach us, and which, as we grow up, we learn to 
doubt or disbelieve, is true after all in the sense of feeling. 
Every virtuous impulse is such a true enjoyment, that, were 
a good man buffeted through the world during all his passage 
in it, he has an inward smile at the absurdity of mankind, 
who can for a moment think that its ridicule or contempt can 
detract from his real happiness ; as if he said in thought, ‘ You 
come too late with your animadversions and oppositions. I 


Henry Lyle. if& 

am already paid, although my projects in realization were 
foiled.’ Do you see?” concluded Lyle, turning his eyes 
towards Augusta. 

“ Yes, dear Henry,” said Augusta ; “ I feel inclined to 
emulate sometimes Miss Delaville, and call you all sorts of 
pretty names ; hut with this difference, that I should believe 
all Isay.” 

“ Perhaps Miss Delaville does also, Gussy,” said Lyle ; “ at 
least I should prefer thinking so, or many of my best compli- 
ments must fall to the ground. Those ladies are never-failing 
resources whenever I have been snubbed either publicly or 
privately. If society abuses a picture of mine, I know I shall 
find at least two ladies to declare it is perfect ; and though all 
the world should laugh at me for my want of argument in 
disputation, I know where to find ready advocates.” 

“Your want of argument, Henry! I cannot understand 
that last pamphlet of yours,” said Augusta, “for I have not 
read the answer to the first. Have you it ?” 

“ Yes,” said Henry Lyle, his gravity returning ; “ but, 
Gussy, you must not think to read it. It can do you no good, 
my darling ; although I should not fear its doing you material 
harm, and could only give you pain, as it did me. There are 
ideas which, once known, are difficult to get rid of; and 
horrible sentiments, when allowed to assume the tangible form 
of words, will become part of the mind, where before they 
could scarcely have entered, from being but shadowy and un- 
connected inspirations.” 


170 


Henry Lyle. 


“ What a fearful man your correspondent must be !” observed 
Augusta, after a pause. 

“Poor wretch ! I fear he has abused a magnificent intellect 
to the worst purposes. His writings show an immense depth 
of thought and a splendidly-cultivated mind ; and, throughout, 
which is the saddest part to me, Augusta, a touch of poetry, 
occasionally almost of deep feeling, which shows too plainly 
that the fine sentiments which God placed in his hdart must 
have been violently crushed, to reduce him to his present state 
of moral madness.” 

“ I wonder if he is a young or old man,” observed Augusta. 

“ Young, I should imagine,” returned Lyle, “ for all his 
principles are violent and impetuous ; young, I hope, for his 
own sake. An old bigot is much harder of conviction than a 
young one, you know, Gussy. Old people are very difficult to 
deal with where they are wrong ; for the natural sympathies, 
to which we seek ever to appeal, are too often dried up, or 
falsely biassed. There is usually some tender spot left in the 
young to which we can apply ; some remnant of childhood yet 
unworn out, of innocence, which becomes more and more 
shaken off, until in age it is entirely parted with. I am 
speaking, Gussy, of the general crowd, not of individuals 
which we might select. We know that there are youthful 
hearts made hard, and old men who have retained the sim- 
plicity of childhood ; but the general habit of the world is 
hardening, and we become year by year less susceptible and 
trusting. The principle of our faith is to continue through life 
that child-like spirit with which we started ; or, if we have 


Henry Lyle. 


171 


departed from it, to bring ns back to the original innocence, 
setting up as our type our first selves, the dependent and 
trusting infants ; so that the child who is set in the midst of us 
as our example, is to each of us the memory of what once we 
were, before we knew the world to be wicked and unworthy, 
when we believed all things and trusted all things.” 

“ It seems to me that you are, and ever will be, a child in 
heart and principle,” thought Augusta ; but she refrained from 
giving expression to the thought, and remarked, “ I wish I 
could spontaneously think in all things as you do, dearest 
Henry ; I wish you would continue always teaching me, as 
now. I have never forgotten the first day you spoke to me of 
these things. Do you remember it as well as I do, Henry — 
that day when you walked home with us? From that 
moment, I seemed to myself to shake off a slough of indiffer- 
ence and selfishness, which until then I had unconsciously worn 
— to become sensible of my real position as one of the million. 
What do I not owe to you !” 

“ Not to me, Gussy,” said Lyle ; “ I could not have roused 
you from apathy and indifference by any mere words of mine ; 
the cause was higher than I only; believe it, dear.” 

From that hour Augusta entered fully into all Lyle’s plans 
of usefulness, accompanying him in his visits amongst his poor 
friends and neighbours, or, when she was so required, going of 
herself, identifying herself with the wants and wishes of others, 
and becoming gradually more and more human and actively 
kind-hearted ; all of which was, of course, very ridiculous in 
the eyes of Miss Delaville and her sister Miss Bella, and those 


172 


Henry Lyle. 


of their way of thinking, and at times very engrossing to the 
thoughts as well as time of Augusta. Those were happy days, 
as she confessed afterwards, in looking back upon them, when, 
the morning’s work over — real, not play-work — the afternoon’s 
walk, and the daily acts of kindness and sympathy, sometimes 
in words only, it is true, but always heartfelt — come to an 
end ; in the dark hour Augusta would sit upon a low seat by 
the knees of Lyle, and sing to him with her guitar. 

The old song always was returned to, however new or more 
brilliant might be others, none more lovely — “ Home, sweet 
Home and in singing it, no tears but those of happiness 
would rise to Augusta’s eyes, not even at the remembrance 
that on such a night she had sung to her father that same 
song, and afterwards he had died. 

They heard frequently from Philip Wilson ; his letters 
always full of new schemes, speculations, and plans, but 
telling little of realization ; full of affection and remembrances 
of former days, and kind wishes to themselves ; so that in 
reading them, Augusta, could almost have imagined she heard 
the kind words from Philip himself, and would picture to 
herself and Lyle his handsome, animated brown face and 
excited manner. 


Henry Lyle. 


173 


CHAPTER XXV, 

c • 


As Augusta and Lyle were walking down the right side of 
Oxford street, their regard was attracted by the approach of a 
beggar^ He was a respectable-looking man, although poverty- 
stricken in the extreme, apparently making no show of his 
misery, or forcing his distress Upon public notice, as the manner 
of most beggars is. He respectfully touched his remains of a 
hat as Lyle and Augusta glanced towards him, and appealed 
to their compassion in looks only, for he stood silently and still. 

“ Poor fellow !” said Augusta to her husband ; “ speak to him, 
Henry.” 

The man perceived that he was the object of their remarks, 
and touched his hat again, saying as he dreW near : 

“ If you would give assistance to a poor soul, sir, who has 
not broken his fast since yesterday morning, and with three 
children a-crying for bread, you would do a real charity, sir. 
it d thing, young lady, to be reduced to begging,” he 


Henry Lyle. 


17 * 

continued, turning to Augusta: “it is not what I have been 
used to ; but \yhat can an honest man do, when thrown out of 
work this last ten months ?’> 

“ How were you thrown out of work ?” asked Lyle. 

“By an accident, sir. I injured my hand ; and when I ap- 
plied upon my recovery, my place had been filled up. There’s 
more hands than work, you see.” 

“ And now do you do nothing ?” 

“ What can I do, sir, excepting beg ? and begging’s a bad 
trade ; but so long as I keep honest, I ought to bless the Lord. 
It is His will, and we must submit.” 

The man’s manner of speaking seemed superior to his 
appearance and position, and Augusta’s first impulse was to 
give him money, but she waited for her husband to act. Lyle 
demanded minutely of the man his then place of abode, of 
which he gave a full, and apparently candid, description. 

“ And your name ?” said Lyle. 

“ Collins, sir ; William Collins.” 

Lyle wrote down the address, while the man stood expect- 
antly waiting his pleasure ; then bidding him follow to the 
nearest baker’s shop, he desired the tradesman to give him 
bread, saying at the same time to Collins. 

“ You must not think me harsh in refusing to give you 
money, but we are so frequently imposed upon by tales such 
as yours, that it becomes a necessity to guard against imposi- 
tion. I do not mean to say that I doubt your statement, 
knowing nothing against you : if I find you to be an honest 
man, I shall be glad to assist you otherwise.” 


Henry Lyle. 


17o 


f 

“ Thank ye, sir,” replied Collins. “I know very well that 
it is difficult for gentlefolks to act when there is so much 
deception always about; and that’s what makes honest men 
starve. We should easier get a living if every one told the 
truth, you see.” 

“I will come and find out your place of abode to-morrow, if 
nothing prevents,” resumed Lyle ; “meanwhile, good morning.” 

The man blessed them in the usual style, and stood upon 
the pavement where they had left him, looking after their 
retreating figures until they were lost to sight. 

The next day Lyle set out in search of William Coffins’ 
lodging, and Augusta begged to- accompany him. She had 
become interested in the man’s appearance and manners, and 
the straightforward way in which he told his story. 

It Was, as usual, a noisy and unpleasant neighbourhood, 
overflowing with children, of all ages, and in all stages of 
paleness and' precocity ; but the place was found without much 
difficulty; the number was also there, and Lyle inquired 
whether William Collins was at home. 

There was a dirty woman emptying a pail of dirty water 
down the dirty alley, and to her Lyle addressed himself. She 
stood and demanded what name he said. Lyle repeated, 
“William Coffins.” 

“ I don’t know no such a person,” replied she, scratching 
her head ; and calling out to a boy a few yards olfi she 
demanded of him if he knew a William Collins. The boy 
also scratched his head, but found no more information by so 
doing than had the woman. 


• 176 


Henry Lyle. 


“ I was told No. 6,” said Lyle, “ in this court. Has no 
person with such a name ever Jived here ?” 

“ This here is my house,” replied the woman ; “ I have had 
lodgers, girls, hut. never had any "William Collins.” 

A man who had been smoking at a little distance drew 
near, in order to overhear what was going on ; and taking his 
pipe from his mouth, observed, 

“ You’ve been took in, that’s what it is. What might the 
man be ?” 

“ I do not know what he may be,” said Lyle. “ He told 
me he had been a journeyman, but he also told me he lived 
at No. 6 in this court : one statement may be as true as the 
other.” 

“ Ah !” said the man, and replaced his pipe in his mouth. 

Augusta felt annoyed and bewildered, so much so that the 
man turned to her and said : 

“ It’s always the way with them vagrants, miss ; they’re 
not of no use coming after.” 

Lyle wished the people good afternoon, and Augusta and he 
left the court. 

“ He must be an impostor, Henry,” said Augusta, in a tone 
of disappointment. 

“ It seems so,” he replied ; “ at any rate, he did not wish us 
to inquire further into his affairs. It is not unusual for beggars 
to give a false address.” . , 

“ Have you met with such before, then ?” asked she. 
f “ Very many times, Gussy ; and expect often to meet with 
such again. There are rogues in every class, and we cannot 


Henry Lyle. 


177 


expect our beggars to turn out all story-book cottagers, inter- 
esting in their humility and poverty, and overwhelming in their 
gratitude ; although I have known many "such also,” answered 
Henry Lyle. 

“ Those are really story-book cottagers, are they not ?” said 
Augusta, another day, remembering Lyle’s former words, after 
she and her husband had been sitting with a family who made 
no show of poverty, without being able to conceal it, who 
asked for nothing and yet thanked warmly for what was 
offered, and who spoke cheerfully and hopefully of the present 
and the future, however blank both might have appeared to 
others, fdr them. 

“ And yet,” said Lyle, “ you will be surprised to hear that 
I remember that very family a complete contrast to what it 
is : abjectly poor, and sullenly callous to every feeling of right, 
apparently beyond redemption.” 

“ How was that ?” asked Augusta. 

“ The man spent his whole wages in drink, and the woman, 
and even children, were reckless of everything.” 

“ And you taught them better ?” Augusta inquired. 

“ The man was not a brute, Augusta ; he was capable of 
conviction, but he had been dealt unwisely with. The woman 
was roused by adversity instead of improved, and made a 
wretched home for her husband, and the children were utterly 
ignorant. Yet there was good ground to work upon, for "Wil- 
liams is honest and truthful. If men would but work with 
judgment, very little influence might effect such a change as 
that we speak of. We — I speak of gentlepeople, men and 


178 


Henry Lyle. 


women of education — have always the influence of our superi- 
ority over the poor ; why do we not all exert it ? A man of 
any sense must he convinced of what is palpably to his own 
advantage.” 

“But might he not he convinced, and yet refuse to reform?” 

“ Very true, and so it is often the case ; fortunately it was 
not so here. Williams waited apparently for the opportunity 
of rising superior to his vices ; many, I believe, so wait ; and 
we, who might, never give them that blest opportunity. He 
is now a temperate man, as well as an industrious one.” 

“No wonder they are attached and grateful to you,” observed 
Augusta. 

“ They are more grateful than the services I have been able 
to render them would seem to call for. Do you know, Gussy, 
that a very little kindness goes a great way with the poor. 
The Williamses always overrate what I have done for them.” 

“ Or you underrate it, Henry.” 

“ No, I think not ; we are too apt to feel like a good Samar- 
itan, after having bound up our neighbour’s wounds, and to say 
mentally to every other man we meet, ‘ Why don’t you go and 
do likewise?’” said Lyle. “I fear that humility is a very rare 
virtue, Gussy ; I wish I had more of it.” 

“ I think people are not really aware of what qualities they 
possess. You constantly hear men accusing others of faults 
which are the most glaring in their own characters ; or taking 
to themselves blame, where we should imagine them most 
without reproach.” 

“ Yes, you are right : we do not know our own hearts. Do 


Henry Lyle. 


179 


you not meet with men imagining themselves gruff and unfeel- 
ing ; and others, who have not nearly so much kindness of 
disposition, flattering their own imaginations that they are all 
heart?” 

tf I can imagine the latter case,” Augusta said; “for all 
would wish to appear amiable, one would think ; but why any 
should assume a fault which they have not, is to me a 
mystery.” 

“ Have you ever met with men who professed to be more 
unprincipled than they really would dare to be ? Have you 
ever heard a young man speak as if utterly reckless of religion 
and feeling, glorying in being unmanned, professing ‘ to care 
for none of these things,’ so that you might justly afterwards 
feel surprised at discovering that this same young man says his 
prayers regularly, and reads his Bible ? These are always very 
young men, Gussy ; men in name only, who think to astound 
women by their boldness in vice, where they have no other 
means of making themselves remarkable. If you ever hear a 
man so talk, although he may chance to have signs of manhood 
on his face, you may put him down at once as having but very 
shortly left school ; as a very small midshipman will think to 
awe his relations upon his return from his first cruise by bring- 
ing out a round oath, and hopes that thus he establishes him- 
self, in the eyes of his mother and sister, as ‘ a man of the 
world.’ ” 

“ I think, if such boy-men as you speak of could know how 
easily women, however young, se© through their folly, and 


180 


Henry Lyle. 


how they despise them for it, they would seek some other 
means of recommending themselves to our notice.” 

“It is to be hoped that they all in time will learn the 
lesson,” said Lyle. “ Boys, as a class, are the most difficult 
of all subjects to deal with, especially when they begin to con- 
sider themselves men.” 

“ They always appear to me to be thinking in every move- 
ment and action, ‘lama man V I feel inclined to say, ‘ Well, 
you are not the only one ; look about you, you will see plenty 
more, better specimens of the race than yourself.’ ” 

Lyle laughed. “ Who gave you that idea ?” he asked. 

“ No one, or everybody, rather.” 

“ And yet, perhaps those very men, Gussy, were they driven 
home to their real hearts, would confess their inferiority in 
stronger terms than we should like to use of them. In the 
course of my life I have learnt something of human nature — 
the most useful of all studies — and I have seen the greatest 
contrarieties in the outward, or worldly, and the inward, or 
home man. I repeat, we do not know our own hearts ; men 
profess qualities and feelings foreign to them. I could tell you 
of such personal mistakes which have come under my own ob- 
servation. I am acquainted with two brothers of the name of 
Carter, who some day I will introduce to you, who have lived 
all their lives .under a mistake, and upon whom reason and ar- 
gument are thrown away.” 

“ Tell me about them,” said Augusta. 

“ No, you shall become acquainted with them, and learn 


Henry Lyre. 


<P1 

this piece of human nature for yourself. You must keep your 
observation always on the alert, as you go through the world, 
Gussy ; for knowledge is on the right hand and on the left, 
waiting only to he acquired by us,” said Henry Lyle. “ How 
gravely^ we have been talking to-day !” he added, as they 
reached their own door. 

“ I always like* to talk gravely with you, Henry,” Augusta 
answered. “ I can talk nonsense only with those to whom I 
am indifferent. I never talked idly to you from the first 
moment I saw you ; excepting that, I forgot, you did not then 
talk at all . 


182 


Henry Lylp 


CHAPTER XX YI. 


They were two strapping young fellows — those brothers, 
Richard and William Carter ; energetic, enterprising, full of 
good humour and pleasantry to all, excepting to each other : 
and yet they lived together, worked together, played together, 
and, we believe, slept together. Their ages were twenty and 
nineteen, and they were both of them prepossessing in appear- 
ance and manners. They were masons by trade, both hav- 
ing the same tastes and abilities. Lyle had known them for 
some years, and had several times had opportunities of further- 
ing his acquaintance with them,* as they worked in the 
neighbourhood of his own residence. 

Lyle pointed out to Augusta Dick Carter, as the young man 
touched: his paper-cap to him one morning, while climbing 
past the window of the adjoining house in order to make some 
repairs upon the roof. 

“ The brother is probably not far distant,” said Henry, “ for 


Henry Lyle. 


183 


they always contrive to obtain employment under the same 
master, notwithstanding their hatred of each other.” 

• “ Hatred of each other ?” asked Augusta, in some surprise. 

“ Yes,” rejoined Lyle ; “ when one speaks of the other you 
would imagine them to be a pair of Cains, but yet I have an 
idea that there is more bark than bite about their dispositions. 
It was to them I alluded when I spoke to you one day of our 
ignorance of our real feelings. Now, I should not be surprised 
if Dick yonder gives us a little conversation next time he 
crawls across the window-sill ; if not, I will address him on the 
subject of his brother?’ 

It fell out as Lyle surmised : Dick Carter paused as he 
passed the window, which was open, looked in, re-touched his 
cap, and then said, 

“ Good day, sir ; and the lady too. Fine morning.” 

“ Very fine indeed,” answered Lyle, going to the window, in 
order to prolong the conversation. “ I hope you have a good job.” 

“Why, yes, sir, pretty well. We are repairing the roof, 
which is in a precious bad w r ay, with the weather and what 
not ; and time enough, too.” 

“ Are you alone ?” asked Lyle, anticipating the answer. 

“ Only Bill, sir : he’s there, and a- throwing bits o’ dirt on 
the top of my head. Hallo, you stupid !” he called out to his 
brother ; “ be more careful, can’t you ? Never see such a 
awkward lout in my life,” continued he, turning to Lyle, who 
could with difficulty keep his countenance. 

“I thought William was a very good and clever workman,” 
observed the latter. 


184 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Yes, sir, a good workman enough. Oh, yes, Bill’s clever 
at his trade, anyhow.” 

“ You always work together V* said Lyle, interrogatively. 

4 4 Yes, sir, worse luck ! I’m always being bothered with him.” 

'“ It cannot he much bother, though, to you,” said Lyle, 
“ for it must he pleasanter for brothers to work together than 
^strangers. You are used to each other, you see, and under- 
stand each other.” 

“We ain’t no ways brothers,” said the young man, con- 
temptuously. “ Perhaps we understand each other too well, 
and know each other’s ways too well, for all that. Bill ain’t 
of no account to me, sir.” 

“ And yet he should he of some account to you, my friend,” 
said Lyle; “you were horn of the same parents, and can never 
through life he indifferent one to the other.” 

“ Yes, we were horn of the same parents, and good parents, too, 
they were ; hut, somehow, Bill ain’t my sort of man : we never 
could take to one another. But maybe I’m keeping of you, 
sir, with my talk, and the master will he after me for loitering 
this way. Good morning, Mr. Lyle, and the lady. Hallo ! 
what are you after, Bill ? If I catches you, I’ll give it you, 
I will; kicking slates on to a fellow’s shoulders, you !” Which 
latter was addressed to the offending Bill, who was sprawling 
upon the roof above like a spread-eagle face downwards. 

“ Here comes the other one, surely, by his likeness to 
Richard, ” said Augusta, as another man looked into the 
window a few minutes later. The guess was immediately 
confirmed by his inquiry, 


Henry Lyle. 


185 


“ Hope you are well, Mr. Lyle ? I thought it was your 
voice I heard just now, speaking with Dick.” 

“I am glad to see you,” said Lyle, kindly, “and glad to 
find you both employed so near to me. I hope you and Dick 
are getting on well.” 

“ Well, sir, we get on as well as we may expect, thank 
God ; but I should get on better, maybe, if it warn’t for Dick. 
I wish he was out in America, or anywhere so that I could 
lead a quiet life.” 

“Do not say so,” said Lyle, “for you do not mean it. I 
know you, Carter, to be a man of more principle than really 
to wish such a thing ; you lmow your duty better, both to God 
and to your brother.” 

The man blushed, looked foolish, and scratched his head, 
which is invariably a resource amongst the lower- classes. 

“ What makes you speak so unkindly, so unaffectionately of 
your brother ?” asked Lyle. “ It is distressing to hear you : it 
sounds so unlike the love you should feel for him.” 

“Love?” replied the young man; “ I don’t love Dick; I 
never did care for him.” 

“Indeed, you mistake,” answered Lyle; “you do care for 
him, very much. You do not know your own heart.” 

The man laughed, and answered good-humouredly, 

“ Yes, indeed I do, sir. I never did care for Dick, not I. I 
never liked him, boy or man, and never shall like him, 
neither. You can have no idea how aggerawatin he is to me.” 

It struck Henry Lyle that there might have been no aggra- 
vation in Dick’s ways, had his brother been so totally indifferent 


186 


Henry Lyle. 


to him as he professed to he ; hut he kept the reflection to 
himself, and as 'William Carter left the window, Lyle thought 
over again the opinions which once he had expressed to 
Augusta. 

Henry Lyle and Augusta returned to their several employ- 
ments, which they had left in order to observe the movements 
of the brothers Carter, and for some hours the two masons 
were ^forgotten : when they were again brought to their 
memories, it was in a violent and alarming manner. 

There was a scuffling noise, a spluttering of mortar, slates 
and dust ; a dead silence, and then a shriek from the roof. 

Augusta and Lyle simultaneously flew to the window. 
Beneath, upon the pavement, lay the figure of one of the 
brothers, apparently senseless, and bleeding ; while William 
was frantically descending the ladder, which was placed 
against the roof where he had been working, utterly regardless 
of his footsteps, pale as a sheet, and trembling with excitement. 

It was from him the shriek had arisen, as Richard, in an 
unguarded moment fell. 

Now, Henry Lyle was a most ridiculous man in some 
things. There was an hospital not many streets off, where, 
of course, any man who met with an accident might, and 
ought rightfully, to be conveyed ; but upon some paltry consid- 
eration, that the mere movement— that distance might aggra- 
vate the pain occasioned by the fall, the idea of the hospital 
was not for a moment entertained. 

Richard Carter was not a gentleman, and it is extremely 
uncomfortable at any time to have a household upset by the 


Henry Lyle. 


187 


introduction of any person foreign to the establishment — an 
invalid more so, even though he may he highly connected ; but 
an invalid mason, a mere vulgar man ! No one with any know- 
ledge of what is the thing , no one with any proper regard for 
the usual ways of action ; more, no one with any consideration 
for what the world would think, and What “ people would 
say,” would have acted as Henry Lyle acted on this occasion. 
True, Hick Carter was a fellow-creature, and a suffering one ; 
we all know that ; but no one could expect a gentleman to 
receive into his house a wounded, bleeding, fainting man, all 
covered with dust and dirt. 

Lyle opened the hall-door, and, forgetting his hat, ran 
bareheaded into the street, to the spot where Richard lay. 
William was striving to raise him vainly, weakened by 
excitement and agitation as he was. He had with his hand- 
kerchief been wiping the blood and dust from his brother’s 
face ; and as Lyle approached, he looked up at him, every 
feature twitching. 

“ Look here, sir ! What’s to be done, Mr. Lyle ? I can’t 
make him come to.” 

He looked wistfully into the face of his brother. 

“ Are you dead, Dick ? Oh ! do answer me. Sir, do you 
think he can be dead ?” 

The poor man laid his face upon his brother’s breast, and 
broke into convulsive sobs. 

Meanwhile, Henry Lyle had felt the pulse of Richard 
Carter, and ascertained beyond a doubt that he was still alive. 

“Come, come, William, my dear fellow,” said he, “be a 
man : Dick is not dead. Help me to carry him into the house. 


188 


Henry Lyle. 


We will send for a surgeon, and he will soon be all right, 
please God.” 

The man raised his head from his brother’s body, and brush- 
ing his shirt-sleeve across his eyes, assisted Lyle in raising and 
conveying Richard into one of the ground-floor rooms, where, 
a surgeon having been procured, he now recovered, having 
sustained no further injury than very severe bruises and 
knocks, although it seemed almost a miracle that he had not 
broke any limbs. 

William returned to his work, not only that day, but far 
into the night, it being moonlight weather, in order to accom- 
plish his brother’s task as well as his own, being profuse in 
thanks and acknowledgments to the Lyles for their kindness 
towards Dick, who, as soon as he was able to do so, insisted 
upon resuming his daily occupation, saying it was “ a shame 
to make that fellow Bill do double duty.” 

When “ that fellow Bill ” heard his resolution, however, he 
combated it fiercely, declaring that he “ preferred working like 
a horse ; that he did not want any assistance, and that Dick 
was a fool to attempt work as yet, with his head in such a 
state ; but Dick always was a fool.” Whereupon the brothers 
squeezed each other’s hands, unperceived, as they thought, by 
Henry Lyle ; and the next minute Bill was whistling on the 
roof, and up and down the ladder, carrying clods of mortar 
sufficient to break any ordinary back. 

When alone together, after all these things had gone by, 
Henry Lyle laughed to Augusta, and remarked, “ No one can 
have any idea how ‘ aggerawatin’ those brothers are to each 
other : no wonder they entertain such a mutual dislike !” 


Henry Lyle. 


i Si? 



y 

CHAPTER XXYII. 


One day Lyle and Augusta walked out into the country, 
Augusta was too much a sailor’s daughter Jo affect over-deli- 
cacy and weakness : she was quite capable of walking several 
miles, and did not hesitate to own it. 

They had gone by train to the outskirts of town, and took to 
their feet as the country scenery commenced. It was through 
uninhabited lanes they wandered ; but they met many others 
seeking fresh air, like themselves. It seemed as if here 
squalor and misery never came, for the cottages within sight 
were white and cheerful-looking, the fields were rife with 
crops, the very curs barked impudently, as if they had had 
good dinners. It was a relief to meet with no imploring faces, 
no outstretched hands demanding assistance. 

Lyle did not say so, but he thought thus ; and it was as well 
the remark had not been given utterance to, for he judged 
hastily, after the sight of his eyes at the moment. 


IOC 


Henry Lyle. 


Augusta and he were talking merrily, and laughing at every- 
thing or nothing, when their mirth was suddenly checked, as 
they turned the corner of the road, by a sound which appeared 
to resemble a groan. They at once ceased their talking, and 
listened. It was repeated, and presently they came upon an 
old man who was sunk down by the side of the road. 

“He lay with his face turned to the ground, his hand pressed 
against his side, and his whole frame expressive of suffering, 
while at intervals low groans burst from him. 

Lyle stopped and accosted him ; but at first the man seemed 
too self-engrossed to pay attention. When Henry spoke again, 
he raised his head from its prostrate position, and made an 
effort to touch his hat. 

“ You appear ill,” said Lyle. 

The man groaned again. 

“What is the matter?” asked Augusta. 

“I am often took so, my lady; but it can’t last long. It 
will wear me out soon. It is an asthma fit, sir,” he continued, 
turning to Lyle ; and then relapsing into weakness, he bent his 
head down upon the bank. 

“ An asthma fit ! Who told you it was asthma ?” 

“ That’s what it is, sir ; it takes me in the chest, and well- 
nigh does for me. It comes on in convulsions and fits ; it’s 
ague, that’s what it is.” 

“Ague and asthma are very different things,” said Lyle, 
unable quite to understand the diagnostics of the complaint 
from the man’s own description ; “ but why do you lie there ?” 

“ What can I do ? asked he. “I can’t get on my way, and 


Henri Lyle. 


191 


I haven’t a farthing to pay for help to any one who’d give it. 
Oh ! and he relapsed into groanings and contortions. 

Augusta’s eyes filled with tears. “ Poor old man !” said 
she ; “do, Henry, give him something, or hire a cart to carry 
him.” . 

“ There is no cart near,” answered he ; then, turning to the 
man, he observed. “ If you saw a wagon passing, you could 
hail it, I suppose, to give you a lift ?” 

“ Yes, sir, I dare say,” said the man. 

“ And here’s to pay the carter ; we cannot expect him to 
take you for nothing,” said Lyle, giving the man a shilling, 
and moving on. 

“Bless you, sir ! bless you, young lady! and the asthmatic 
patient made an attempt at wiping his eyes, then groaned, 
and again turned his face to the ground. 

Lyle and Augusta had not walked many yards, when the 
latter turned her head to look at their late object of interest. 
He had risen to a sitting position, and was fumbling in his hat 
for something. 

“ Oh, look, .he seems better now,” exclaimed Augusta. 

“ Yes, he does indeed,” observed her husband with a half- 
smile ; and then added, as some other passengers approached 
the spot where the old man lay, and the sufferer writhed in 
their sight, “ and he seems worse again now.” 

Their walk was rather long that day, and they returned by 
the same road which they had come. As they drew near to 
the spot which had been the scene of their interview with the 
old man, Augusta felt surprised at seeing a dark object still by 


192 


Henry Lyle. 


the wayside. It was getting dusk, so that it was not very 
distinguishable, and she said, half in joke, 

“ I hope that is not our old man, still in his asthma fit.” 

They walked gently up to where the object lay, and no 
sooner were they within hearing than their ears were greeted 
by a groan, and they perceived that the figure lay with his 
head turned to earth, and his hand pressed upon his side. Lyle 
and Augusta stood still, and looked at him attentively, without 
speaking. The man knew that some one was attracted, and 
after two or three more prefatory groans, he said, 

“ Oh, how ever am I to get home ? I haven’t a farthing to 
pay for a lift, and I am so bad. Oh !” 

“ That is strange,” observed Lyle, “ considering I gave you 
a shilling but a few*hours since to help you home.” 

The man ceased his groaning, looked up quickly, and recog- 
nizing Lyle and Augusta, grumbled out something apologetic. 

“ Come, get up and walk home,” said Lyle, sternly ; “ I be- 
lieve you to be about as asthmatic as I am. If you do not, I 
will see if I cannot make you. If there was a policeman within 
reach, I would give you in charge.” 

The man slowly rose, and looking sulkily towards Augusta 
and Lyle, walked away. 

“We have been taken in, Gussy,” said Henry, smiling. 


Henry Lyle. 


103 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


“ And now, Gussy, will you prepare yourself to see a very 
different side of human nature from any which you have met 
with, since with me — a man upon whom kindness seems to 
take no hold ; who, to judge only by outward appearance, is 
insensible to gratitude ?” 

“Why do you go and see him, then, Henry?” asked Augusta. 

“Because, who can tell — I cannot — whether he will always 
remain so, or whether he is even now so callous as he out- 
wardly appears ? Besides, I have an interest even in his surly 
returns for my attention. I should be sorry to lose sight of him.” 

“ Does he only compose his family, then ?” said Augusta. 

“ Yes, he lives alone, as a hermit ; although, perhaps, not 
quite as an anchorite. I do not know his former history. 
There may have occurred some facts to account for his bitter- 
ness of spirit.” 

“ And is he poor ?” 


9 


194 


Heniiy Lyle. 


“ Very ; but too pjoud ever to ask for assistance. He is not 
an uneducated man, as you will observe if he can be persuaded 
to talk.” 

“ What is his name ?” Augusta asked again. 

“ Bertram.” 

“ Why, is not that the man to whom you sent the warm 
clothing last night, by Mrs. Williams ?” Augusta said. 

“ Yes ; he was miserably dressed last time I saw him.” 

“ I must say, I should not feel disposed to send him anything, 
if he is so surly and ill-tempered,” said Augusta, 

“ His surliness does not make him feel the cold the less, 
Gussy,” said Lyle, laughing ; “ perhaps, indeed, more, as good 
temper is usually a comforter.” 

“ But he does not deserve kindness, Harry.” 

“ That is no plea whatever, Augusta ; and it is a bad trial 
for ourselves that habit of questioning whether a cause is 
deserving or no before we take an interest in it. It is too often 
made an excuse for folding our hands. We should ask rather. 
Is such an one in want ? instead of, Will he return an obliga- 
tion with becoming gratitude ? We will not go any further 
and apply the argument to ourselves, for we all know what 
deductions may be made always from such a plea as want of 
desert.” 

Henry Lyle had not coloured the picture he had drawn of 
Bertram : he was surly and ill-tempered in the extreme. 

He was interesting in appearance, from the stalwart height 
of his figure, the decided features, and long grizzled hair which 
bung upon his shoulders. He was seated with his back to the 


Henry Lyle. 


195 


door as Lyle pushed it open from without, for it was unlatched, 
and wished him good afternoon. 

Bertram turned round hastily at the sound of Lyle’s voice, 
and moving back his chair from the fireplace, at which he had 
been gazing, although empty of anything like fire, he grumbled 
out something in answer to the salutation. 

“ I have brought my wife to see you,” said Henry Lyle. 

“Oh, have you?” answered the man, glancing towards 
Augusta for a moment, but without asking her to take a seat. 
So without waiting to be invited, she sat down upon a box 
which stood against the wall of the room. 

“ You have no fire,” observed Lyle ; “ you must be cold 
to-day. Have not you any coals ?” 

“No, I have not any,” answered Bertram, with the air of a 
man whose honour had been insulted. 

“ You had better get yourself some then,” returned Lyle, 
offering him a shilling. 

Bertram made no movement towards taking the money, so 
Lyle laid it upon the mantlepiece. 

Nothing was said of the clothes which had been sent him 
on the previous night, although the man had them on him ; 
neither was any acknowledgement made now of the gift, which 
yet he did not refuse. 

“ He certainly is surly und ungrateful,” remarked Augusta, 
when Lyle and she had left the cottage ; “ our last attempts 
with the poor have been very unsuccessful. Remember the 
old man by the wayside, who cheated us ; and further back, 
recollect that man who called himself Collins I think we fall 
in with all the unfavourable specimens.” 


195 


Henry Lyle. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 


Really, this is very discouraging,” said Augusta, with a 
sigh, after she and Lyle had walked in silence some few 
yards, “it is enough to make us leave off every effort to assist 
others : all the world seems so ungrateful.” 

“ Stay, you are too fast Augusta,” answered Lyle ; “it is 
very discouraging to he imposed upon, but it should not he so ; 
and never can he sufficient excuse to leave off* every effort at 
assisting others. All the world is not an imposition, although 
a great part of it may he. "What do we look for in assisting 
others, that we complain if they disappoint us ? Gratitude, I 
presume, as the general cry is that the poor are an ungrateful 
set. Now, I will not stop at present to discus^ that question, 
and to prove to you that the poor as a class, are not ungrateful. 
We will speak of the accusation you have made against it that 
this is an ungrateful world ; let us suppose, without argument, 
that it is so. Do you not recall to mind some such words as 


Henry Lyle. 


197 


the following : ‘And do good, hoping for nothing in return ?’ 
We ever hope for payment in feelings, or in eloquent words 
and acknowledgments, for anything we have done, or we 
should not he dissatisfied with such an issue as we have seen 
to-day. Grant that Bertram is graceless and thankless : the 
fact of his being so did not absolve us from our duty towards 
him ; had we failed in it, Bertram would still have been to 
blame for his want of gratitude, and we also for our want of 
kindness towards him. Now I trust that at least we have 
done what we could ; it may have been useless, but we are 
not to blame for the issue of things when we have used the 
proper means. Do you agree with me ?” 

“ Yes,” said she. “ Go on, Harry.” 

“It is an excuse very generally made, without scarcely a 
thought of the absurdity of it. A man, upon being unkindly 
used by another, will exclaim, * I have ever treated him with 
forbearance, but since his ungrateful behaviour I will do so no 
longer.’ One is discourteous to his acquaintance, and the 
acquaintance foolishly remarks. ‘ He will find that if he is 
rude, I can be rude also ; if he gives himself airs, he shall 
receive airs from me.’ In what is the retaliator better than 
the aggressor ? The man can no longer justly condemn his 
friend for unkindness when he returns him the same coin ; nor 
can the other say that his acquaintance should not be rude, 
when he acknowledges himself capable of the very same thing. 
It is as if we justified ourselves in lying to one who is a liar, or 
in stealing from a thief. So, if th& world treats us with want 
of gratitude, and we withdraw our hand from helping others, 


198 


Henry Lyle. 


we become more ungrateful than the world in shirking our 
duty towards Heaven. Duty is absolute, irrespective of cir- 
cumstances and of feeling. The commands are, ‘Do — give 
— love.’ It is not added, ‘If it is convenient to your sentiments 
and opinions.’ ” 

He waited for Augusta to speak, but she answered nothing, 
excepting by pressing her hand against his arm. 

“ Suppose we spent our whole lives in attempts, Gussy, and 
only once in life succeeded in finding a deserving object — that 
object might have died unhelped had we not sought him — we 
had not lived in vain. But I think we need not draw even 
our experiences of honesty amongst our fellow-creatures into so 
narrow a limit as that. The plea for idleness or indolence, 
which is made on the score of the world’s ingratitude and 
hypocrisy, comes usually, I imagine, from those who know 
least of the world. It is not those who have mixed most with 
their fellow-creatures who dislike them most. The greater the 
true knowledge of human nature, it seems to me, the more we 
must learn to sympathize with it, with all its weaknesses and 
faults. I do not speak the word world as some understand it. 

I intend mankind in general. A man must love himself ; and 
each leaf of the human volume which he studies, is in so many 
respects a reflex of the original type which he loves, that he 
must learn to take an interest in the temptations, weaknesses, 
sorrows, errors even, to which his own heart cannot but 
acknowledge kindred.” 


Henry Lyle. 


199 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“Who is that boy to whom you were just now speaking?” 
asked Henry Lyle of his friend, Richard Carter, after the latter 
had parted with the youth of apparently fifteen years of age. 

“ A lad who lives in our court, sir ; a natural, I fancy. He 
has always been the same,” replied the mason. 

“ He seems a good-natured lad,” observed Lyle, looking after 
the hoy, who, in his desire to oblige Carter, had loaded him- 
self, to all appearance, beyond his strength. 

“Very much so,” said Richard, in return. “Willy is 
always ready to lend a hand to help another, hut he enjoys 
very bad health, sir.” 

Lyle thought the enjoyment alluded to was, perhaps, ques- 
tionable ; but he did not stop to rail at Carter’s mode of expres- 
sion, hut demanded, 

“ How do you mean, Richard, a natural ?” 

“Why, sir, he is not fit for work, or anything of the sort. 


200 


Henry Lyle. 


He lias always been a strange kind of boy, and perhaps is none 
the better for the way in which he lives.” 

“ Who is his father ?” asked Lyle. 

“ Why, the cobbler in our court, sir ; you must have seen 
him. Willy has been in the hospital lately, along of having 
broken his arm, and is only now out. The father is no ways 
bright himself, for the matter of that.” 

“ And does this boy do nothing ?” asked Lyle. 

“Nothing, sir, excepting when the neighbours may give him 
odd jobs ; and what is to become of him, I don’t know. Well, 
Willy?” continued Carter, as the lad returned, and stood 
vacantly, awaiting further directions : “ this is Mr. Lyle,” 
directing his attention towards Henry ; take off your cap, why 
don’t you ?” 

Willy Benson smiled stupidly, and acted as he was directed, 
then stood as if quite indifferent to what was going on. 

“ He don’t seem to have any feeling, as it were,” resumed 
Richard Carter ; “ one might talk and talk, but I doubt if he 
would understand — he is quite incapable of understanding.” 

“Hush!” said Lyle, in an under tone; “do not speak so 
before him.” 

“ Oh, bless you, sir, Willy takes no heed of what we say.” 

“I doubt that,” returned Lyle; and, walking aside with 
Carter, he continued, “ Has the boy always been as you say, a 
natural ?” 

“ I believe so, sir.” 

“ Does he think himself one ?” 

“ Oh yes,’’ said Carter ; “ he knows he is not right.” 


Henry Lyle. 


201 


“ And has no effort been ever made to procure him employ, 
ment?” asked Lyle. “Is he taught nothing? Do his father 
and mother contemplate his remaining as he is all his life, 
without any means of support ?” 

“ His father and mother are poor people, you see, Mr. Lyle ; 
and Willy never did take to any work, and his mother, I fancy, 
don’t like to part with him.” 

“ I say, Richard,” said Lyle, “ leave off telling the hoy, or 
saying in his presence, that he is silly, will you ? I can assure 
you that it will he a likely way of making him worse.” 

Richard Carter stared at Lyle in astonishment but he 
answered, 

“ Certainly, sir, as you say it ; but Willy knows very well 
himself that he ain’t fit for much.” 

“ Do you think that I could do anything for the Bensons ?” 
asked Lyle, after a pause. 

“Why, sir, they are very poor, as I said before; and poor 
people don’t find it difficult to discover wants. The man is a 
hard-working man enough, but he can’t always get employ- 
ment ; and as for the woman, she is but a poor thing. I think 
it wouldn’t be time thrown away to take a look at them.” 

Henry Lyle nodded and smiled, and when he returned home 
he detailed to Augusta the conversation which had taken place 
with Carter. It was not many days before they found the 
cottage, or rather room, where the Bensons lived. 

We all know that people, rich or poor, carry their characters 

pretty well displayed about the rooms in which they live. 

Thus, there was something unpromising in the rucked-up 

9 * 


202 


Henry Lyle. 


matting at the door, the latch fastening disjointedly, the untidy 
and injudicious placing of the different pieces of furniture about 
the Benson’s place of abode. Yet there was a friendliness of 
manner about the people themselves which was encouraging 
to the Lyles ; for a first visit to any, high or low, is always to 
a certain extent awkward. 

Cloths or dusters had to he removed before two chairs were 
ready for the visitors to sit on, and slops of water to he wiped 
up before the floor was fit for their accommodation ; but all 
these arrangements were made good-humouredly, and amidst a 
great many w r ords on the part of Mrs. Benson, for it seemed 
that Richard Carter had forewarned the matron of the proba- 
ble visit of Mr. and Mrs. Lyle. 

“ I met your son,” commenced Lyle, after the first remarks 
had passed, which served to place the new acquaintances upon 
an agreeable footing — “ I met your son the other day with 
Richard Carter, and felt interested in the account he gave to 
me of him. The object of my present call is to inquire further 
about Willy, and see whether some employment could not be 
procured for him ; for it will never do that he should continue 
idle all his days : he will soon be a man, and it would be a sad 
thing that he should be left without the means of support.” 

Lyle had addressed himself to Mrs. Benson, but the father 
of the lad took no heed of such small points of etiquette ; he 
glanced towards his son, who was standing by the door of the 
cottage, and back to Lyle, and shook his head in a manner to 
put a stop at once to any such visionary schemes. 


Henry Lyle. 


203 


CHAPTER XXXI 

“ He’s simple, sir, poor fellow ! that’s what he is. He isn’t 
able much to work or anything ; his head ain’t quite right ; it 
hasn’t been for some time past ; he’s quite simple.” 

It was in vain to attempt stopping the eloquence of Benson. 
Lyle tried once or twice to speak, but the man would continue, 
while the poor youth himself looked certainly confirmatory of 
the character given him, by partially turning his back upon the 
visitor, and playing nervously with his own fingers. 

“ Take off your cap, Willy, to the lady and gentleman ; don’t 
stand there with a cap on ; you ought to be ashamed,” contin- 
ued Benson, with a look of pity for the boy addressed towards 
Lyle and Augusta. 

Willy blushed scarlet, as if he had only then recollected that 
he stood covered, and quickly pulled the cap from off his head, 
and threw it on a chair. 

“ Will you come and see me, Willy ?” asked Lyle, kindly. 
And here he gave his address. 

The boy looked stupidly up at him, caught by the tone of 
his voice, and was about to speak. 

“ Oh yes, sir, I will send him,” interrupted the father, with- 
out giving his son time to answer. “ He shall come.” 


9'04 


Henry Lyle. 


Augusta spoke to Willy, but he had relapsed into unconcern, 
and repeating the hour at which he was to visit them, Lyle, 
with Augusta left them. 

“ I should wish to speak to that man alone,” observed Lyle, 
when they were in the street ; it seems to me that there is a 
great mistake somewhere.” 

The following day Willy Benson was punctually at the 
Lyles’ house. He was an interesting-looking youth, apparently 
about fifteen or sixteen, but upon being questioned he gave his 
age as nineteen. He was slight of figure, and pale, with a 
large, prominent forehead — a forehead upon which Henry Lyle 
built most of his conjectures and anticipations. Lyle spoke to 
the boy with friendly ease, in case he should be shy, but that, 
he soon found, was a quality Willy did not possess. True, he 
enunciated slowly, as if he had, or had had, an impediment in 
his speech, but he answered readily enough the questions put 
to him. 

Was he fond of reading ? Yes, he had taught himself to 
read. Could he write ? Not much, but he would like to 
learn. Did he ever draw ? He had tried ; he thought he 
could draw ; he was very fond of pictures, and all such things. 
How did he employ his time ? In making ornaments, which 
he afterwards sold. 

“And who taught you to make such things?” asked 
Augusta. 

“ No one,” said Willy. “ I learnt it of myself.” 

“ That boy, or man, is no idiot,” said Lyle, after the youth 
was gone. “ That there is something out of place, I see ; his 


Henry Lyle. 


205 


brain has been shaken, I believe ; but some qualities have been 
brought out in stronger relief than they might otherwise have 
shown. Those people take the very best plan of fast making 
him an idiot, though. I must speak to that father about him.” 

To “that father” Lyle spoke on the next opportunity given him. 

“ You are wrong, decidedly, in your treatment of Willy,” 
said he ; “ it were sufficient, indeed, to make him what you 
suppose him, an idiot, to be subjected to being continually 
called one.” 

The man stared at Lyle in amazement. Henry continued : 

“ In his own presence you declare him to be simple, and 
soon he will become content to be thought so, without an effort 
at exertion. I presume you have pursued such a course ever 
since he was a child ?” 

“ He has always been simple-like., sir,” said Benson; he was 
never like to other boys : he used to sit as a child, talking to 
himself, or playing alone, and never would care to go into the 
streets.” 

“ And I suppose he gets worse instead of better ?” suggested 
Lyle. 

' He has been getting worse every year, sir.” 

“ And will continue to get w r orse,” said Lyle. “ Now, my 
good man, does it not strike you it had been better to have 
treated your son as if he were a rational creature, capable of 
some reflection and exertion, instead of reminding him hourly 
that you look upon him as a mere machine ? If you tell him 
he is simple, he will leam to consider himself so ; whereas the 
boy is ingenious, and on many subjects intelligent.” 


206 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Oh, in some ways he seems more ’cute than others ; in 
regards of anything like fancy-work, and the like. Ask his 
mother.” 

Lyle, as in courtesy hound, turned towards Mrs. Benson, 
who had been listening mutely to what had been said, and 
who, upon the appeal made by her husband, opened her mouth 
to give expression to the following wisdom, having previously 
dried her hands, which were steaming from the soap-suds over 
which she had been engaged, that she might be able to give 
her undivided attention to the subject under notice : 

“ There it is, you see, sir ; Willy can do anything, as he 
says, in a fancy way, such as houses, peep-shows, and what 
not ; but in other things, as you will be understanding, he 
isn’t. I just mentioned to you, sir, as what it is I mean : he 
never could when at school do anything, not in a summing 
way, or arithmetic, or such ; was you to bring him a question 
of law, or anything in respects of such, which he couldn’t. I 
just mention to you, sir ; for you, as a gentleman, understands 
the sorts of things I mean, which don’t come at all in his 
ways ; though in regards of the matters I spoke of, he is quite 
able, and always was, as in other affairs he is quite simple, as 
I was a saying, which it isn’t.” 

She ceased her speech, to which Lyle had listened with 
supernatural gravity, his face wearing a clenched appearance, 
and his eyes fixed upon a work of art in a tinsel frame against 
the opposite wall. 

“Good morning, Benson,” said he, hurriedly ; “ good morning,” 
to the speaker, not trusting himself to look towards her ; and 


Henry Lyle. 


207 


without further remarks he seized his hat and left the cottage. 

One or two passengers looked with surprise at him after ho 
had gained the street ; for men do not generally stamp with 
laughter upon a public pavement, and get red in the face, with 
tears in their eyes, when they are quite alone, with no object 
present more amusing than a lamp-post. 

Willy Benson from that day went frequently to Lyle’s house ; 
indeed, he partook somewhat of the nature of a domestic animal, 
coming at all unexpected times, glad to be able to offer his 
service?, however small, and always anxious to show his readi- 
ness to oblige Mr. or Mrs. Lyle. On one occasion he arrived 
full of importance, with some hideous little ornaments intended 
for the mantlepiece, which he had manufactured himself. 

“ They are for you, ma’am,” said he, blushing with awk- 
wardness, and speaking in his thick and unintelligible tone of 
voice ; “ I made them myself.” Augusta thanked him warmly, 
and accepted the offering. 

“ That boy is not wanting in gratitude, you see,” observed 
Lyle, after Benson was gone, “ and yet that beautiful latent 
quality was unknown, perhaps, even to himself.” 

As Henry Lyle had said, Willy Benson was not an idiot ; 
but weak health had impaired his mental faculties, and indul- 
gence in idleness had made him little better than an automaton. 

A few months even made a surprising improvement in the 
lad, and Augusta took great interest in urging into develop- 
ment the faculties which had been so long neglected. Miss 
Delaville, as always, could not allow so strange an occupation 
to pass unnoticed, and upon seeing Augusta place on one side 


208 


Henry Lyle. 


a copy-book, in which she had been writing round-hand, moral 
sentiments, observed, 

“ Are you learning to write again ?” 

“The book belongs to a boy whom I am teaching to write,” 
Augusta answered. 

“ La, my dear ! you teaching a boy to write ? What age is 
your boy ? what boy ? whose boy ?” 

“ A poor boy,” said Augusta ; “ a half-witted lad we know, 
who is anxious to learn, but has grown almost into a man 
without any one to teach him.” 

“ And you are teaching him to write ? Well, indeed ! but 
that is very kind in you. I should never think of doing such 
a thing : indeed I should not. What gave you the idea ? 
How very odd !” 

“Oh, Henry told me to teach him,” Augusta answered; 
“ Henry has taught, I should think, more than a dozen people to 
read and write, whom I could name ; it is the best service we can 
do a boy or girl I think, who has been neglected and untaught.” 

“ Oh, to be sure ; and very kind and good in you,” replied 
Miss Delaville ; “ but what an odd idea ! You and Mr. Lyle 
are really most original people : you seem to look upon all the 
world as a species of property of your own, I do believe you do.” 

“I do believe with you,” said Augusta, laughing, “that 
Henry does, to an extent ; he makes practical the maxim, that 
all men are brothers.”' 

““Well, do you know,” exclaimed Miss Delaville, with 
enthusiasm, “ I like that ; I think it is a very beautiful idea, 
and it ought to be made practical, instead of merely visionary 


Henry Lyle. 


209 


Oh, my dear Augusta, I admire you, I do indeed, for your 
philanthropy and efibrts to do good ; I think they are most 
praiseworthy : and as to Mr. Lyle, he is a perfect philanthro- 
pist ; I think his is a beautiful character.” 

Augusta smiled, as she ever did when her husband was the 
subject of praise. 

“ Do not you think so ?” continued Miss Delaville. 

“ I,” Augusta replied, at a loss for words where her feelings 
were stronger than any mere phrases of compliment could 
express, and colouring deep crimson with emotion — “ I think 
there is no one like him.” 

“You have not inquired after your friend Mr. Vere,” said 
Miss Delaville, presently starting a new subject of conversation. 

“Friend!” echoed Augusta; “I do not know that lean 
rank Mr. Yere so highly as the word you use would imply.” 

“ I always connect the two together, you know,” resumed 
Miss Delaville — “your husband and Mr. Yere ; they are my 
two beaux ideals , and Mr. Yere is really so amusing. I 
always repeat to him all about your paupers, to make him 
laugh. You are not offended, my dear Augusta ?” 

“ No,”’ Augusta answered, “I am not offended; but your 
words struck me as rather strange, following immediately upon 
your expressed admiration of the very conduct which you say 
you turn into ridicule.” 

Miss Delaville colored slightly, but she laughed it off, saying, 

a Oh, I don’t mean half I say, my dear creature : you take 
things so seriously. I dare say I tell a dozen stories in a day 
it’s my way ' ’ 


210 


Henry Lyle. 


Very pleasant way ! 

“ But to return to our subject,” resumed Miss Delaville ; 
“ Mr. Vere and your husband are not by any means alike, after 
all. Mr. Vere is really a shocking man — quite a character. 
Mrs. Jerningham told me But of course you must know.” 

“ I don’t know to what you allude,” Augusta answered. 

“Why,” replied Miss Delaville, “he has always been unset- 
tled, as they say, in his principles; but now, I believe, he 
makes no concealment of them. Indeed, I myself have heard 
him say some quite equivocal things ; but of course it would 
not be gentlemanly to bring on discussions about such things 
in public : and Mr. Vere, I must say, is a perfect gentleman. 
Why, my dear Augusta, what is the matter ? You look quite 
alarmed, I declare.” 

“I feel more than alarmed,” said Augusta; “your words 
make my blood run cold. How horrible ! how fearful ! I 
hope, indeed, you may be mistaken.” 

“Indeed, no, I am not. Mr. B told me distinctly that 

Vere is an infidel, or an atheist, or whatever it is called. He 
disbelieves everything. I could tell you more, only you must 
not say it again.” And^ without waiting for any such assurance 
of Augusta’s discretion, the lady rattled on : “ You know those 
pamphlets which have lately been published, and which your 
husband has answered ?” 

Augusta nodded. 

“ They were written by Mr. Vere, I am told ; only he did 
not venture to put his name to them ; for, you see, one must 
keep up some appearance. Did you read them ?” 


Henry Lyle. 


211 


“ No,” Augusta answered. “ Henry forbade my doing so. 
I am glad now that he did.” 

“ Oh, I read them ; you have no idea how very shocking 
they were ; and so interesting. Some of the arguments in them 
quite haunt me still. What a splendidly clever man Mr. Vere is !” 

“Yes, unfortunately for himself and others, as it has 
proved,” said Augusta. “ I wish you had never told me this, 
Miss Delaville.” 

“ La, my dear ! one would think Mr. Yere was a brother of 
yours, you looked so shocked. I dare say there may be other 
men as wicked as he in the world.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but I would rather not learn their wickedness. 
I am very glad Mr. Yere is not in town.” 

“ Oh, I am not, I can tell you. He is a dreadful loss to us. 
Our evenings are nothing without him ; and now that Mr. Lyle 

is married, Miss Gussy, things are very dull. Mr. B , 

though, is a charming man ; don’t you think so ?” 

“ I do not know exactly what you mean by the term. I 
remember you used to style Mr. Yere a charming man, and yet 
you cannot say so of him now.” 

Miss Delaville half laughed, and opened her eyes at Augus« 
ta’s remark. 

“ I think, with all his faults, Mr. Yere is the most delightful 
man I ever knew.” 

“I could not now look at him without thinking of what you 
have told me,” said Augusta. “He is no more than a moral 
murderer.” 

“ My dear Augusta !” said Miss Delaville, looking shocked. 


212 


Henry Lyle. 


ft You do not like the term, 'I see. I have an unfortunate 
habit of calling things by their true names. I hope I may 
never see Mr. Yere again ; for I fear I should be unable to treat 
him as hitherto.” 

“ But what have his private opinions to do with us ?” asked 
Miss Delaville : “ we are not accountable for all our associates 
being of proper feelings, I suppose ?” 

“ I see you do not think with me ; and, perhaps, the thought 
is more a feeling "than an argument. I know, were I to see 
Mr. Yere now, I should feel a great antipathy to shaking hands 
with him.” 

“ That is an odd confession, my dear, I must say ; it does 
not sound very charitable,” said Miss Delaville, with the air of 
a reformer. 

“ Still, I cannot unsay it,” returned Augusta. “ I must 
return to my old source of congratulation, that I shall not be 
put to the proof.” 

Augusta forbore telling her husband of Miss Delaville’s infor- 
mation, partly from the half-request which had been made by 
that lady that she would not repeat it, but chiefly that she 
thought Henry Lyle would be distressed at finding Iris old 
schoolfellow, and the man with whom he had been so long 
personally acquainted, the same with the unknown correspond- 
ent whose sentiments had so indignantly pained him. She 
wished, though, that she might have questioned him^as to her 
own feelings with regard to Mr-. Yere ; for she could not, on 
reflection, retract what she had said to Miss Delaville, or other- 
wise than feel an aversion to holding out her hand to an infidel 


Henry Lyle 


213 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


“What do you think Willy Benson could he made into? for 
a clever man he must he turned out before we have done with 
him,” said Augusta, laughing. “Really, he begins to write 
very well, Henry.” 

“ I have been thinking on that subject several times lately, 
Gussy,” answered Lyle. “ The hoy has not constitution suffi- 
cient for hard work : it must he a light trade only which he 
can learn. At the same time,. he is ingenious. What do you 
think of turning, in wood and ivory, and such things ?” 

“ But he would require to he taught such a trade,” said 
Augusta. “ Willy has not much inventive talent.” 

“ Well, I think I have fixed upon a plan,” said Lyle, after 
a pause : “I know a man who followed that trade once him- 
self, and is capable of teaching it to another.” 

“ Who is that ?” asked Augusta. 

“ I will ask Bertram to do it,” said Lyle. 

“ Bertram ?” exclaimed Augusta, making no disguise of the 


214 


Henry Lyle. 


surprise she felt at Henry’s proposal ; “he will never do you a 
favour; you will get only a rude answer for your trouble, 
Henry : I would not try him.” 

“I think not,” said Lyle, musingly. “I have for some time 
past desired an opportunity of trying whether Bertram might 
not be moulded to less surly stuff than at present composes him. 
I should like him to feel that I am under an obligation to him, as I 
find that placing him under one to me does not affect him kindly.” 

Augusta laughed and shook her head ; but she was aware 
that her husband was firm in such determinations, especially 
when the resolution involved a study of human nature ; and 
Lyle lost no time in calling upon Bertram, whom, as usual, he 
found alone, and, as usual, doing nothing. 

Henry Lyle, after wishing him good morning, opened at once 
upon the desired subject. 

“ Bertram,” said he, “I have heard that you once worked 
as a turner. Do you never so employ yourself now ?” 

“ Never,” said the man ; “I have none belonging to me, 
and none for whom to work.” 

“ Have you forgotten your trade ?” asked Lyle. 

“ A trade once learnt is learnt, I suppose,” said Bertram. 

Here was a silence, and the man relapsed into his usual 
state of apathy. 

“ Bertram,” said Henry Lyle, suddenly, feeling that delay 
was dangerous, and that he might as well risk his chance of 
success in a single word as not with so unpromising a subject 
— “ will you do me a kindness ?” 

The man looked up towards Lyle with unfeigned surprise, 


Henry Lyle. 


215 


but no notice was taken by the latter of the evident feeling. 
He repeated his request, 

“Will you do me a kindness? You have it in your power.” 

“ I !” answered the man, but not rudely or surlily. “ When 
have I ever had it in my power to oblige another for years 
past ? Things were different, perhaps, once ; but who ever 
comes to me and says, * Bertram, do me a kindness ?’ ” 

“ I come to you now, and say, ‘ Bertram, do me a kindness,’ ” 
answered Lyle, in his peculiarly gentle voice ; “ and I feel 
confident that you will not refuse to oblige me.” 

The man changed his position, and looked at the wall, but 
he made no objection in words. Lyle waited for him to speak, 
and meanwhile sat down upon the box by the wall. There 
was a long silence, broken only by Bertram occasionally 
changing his attitude. At length he said, 

“ And what is it, Mr. Lyle ?” 

“ There is a youth of my acquaintance,” said Henry, “ and 
of yours also, I believe ; Willy Benson.” 

“ A natural,’’ said Bertram : “ well !” I 

“He might be taught a mechanical trade, such as turning, 
might he not?” Lyle asked. 

“ Perhaps so : but the tools are expensive at the first start.” 

“ I will provide him with the tools and all necessaries for set- 
ting him going, but I cannot teach him the trade. You will do 
this much for me, will you not, Bertram ?” concluded Henry 
Lyle, making no apology for the extent of the favour he was 
asking of the man, being aware that wordy courtesies would 
be looked upon with suspicion by his companion. 


216 


Henry Lyle. 


“ I will, sir,” said Bertram ; and Lyle held out his hand to 
him, without a word, and shook his hand cordially. 

“And now, may I ask you why you ever thought of 
requesting a favour of me ?” asked Bertram, after a little more 
had passed on the subject of young Benson ; “ there are not 
many — indeed, I doubt if there is another man besides yourself 
who would have asked me to do him a service. I am too surly 
and too ill-tempered a fellow even to be spoken to civilly.’-’ 

“You have not shown yourself so,” said Lyle, “in this 
instance at least ; and you see, I have had a better knowledge 
of you than others, who have imagined you to be as rough as 
your words would imply.” 

“ Mr. Lyle,” said Bertram, gravely, “ there have been things 
in my life which might make a man rough and ill-tempered ; 
but ill-temper is never best overcome by its like. It has some- 
times seemed to me, as I have sat here alone, with never a 
soul saying a kind word to me (excepting, of late, yourself) 
that I might have been less surly if all the world had not 
called me a surly fellow. They began to do so before I was 
quite one, and they made me one amongst them.” 

This was a longer speech than Henry Lyle had ever heard 
Bertram make ; and as he was aware that he was generally a 
man of few words, he gave him no superfluous thanks for his 
ready acquiescence in his request, beyond even Lyle’s own 
expectation. The. subject of Willy Benson’s initiation into 
Bertram’s trade was talked over more fully; and, having 
made arrangements with him for the first start, Lyle wished 
him good-by, and left him. 


Henry Lyle. 


217 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Bertram did his part faithfully, and showed himself a 
clever workman at his trade. Lyle proposed that "Willy 
Benson should live in the spare-room, which was unlet, in 
Bertram’s cottage ; and the man answered, “ As you will, 
Mr. Lyle.” 

Young Benson’s mother, the female logician, was at first 
somewhat averse to the connection formed between her son and 
the old man, who had been looked upon as a species of ogre by 
the people of the neighbourhood, and she more than once 
1 entered a protest against the arrangement, in her own clear 
and succinct style of argument ; hut the lad Benson had become 
attached to the Lyles, and was anxious to show himself capa- 
ble of acting as a man, instead of a helpless child ; the which, 
had his mother had her own way, she would have kept him 
all his life. 

Bertram did not, however, gain any more ground with his 
10 


238 


Henry Lyle. 


neighbours : he was still looked upon with suspicion and dis- 
trust ; hut to these he was callously indifferent. 

“ A set of ignorant fools !” said he one day upon re-entering 
his room, after having been employed in fetching from the 
court hard by the water which he required for household uses. 
The remark had been addressed to himself alone, but upon 
gaining his own room he perceived that he had had a hearer. 

“ So they are, Mr. Lyle,” repeated he, addressing himself to 
Henry, who had, during his absence, entered the cottage, and 
was awaiting his return ; “I have not been used, all my life, 
to associating with such, and I cannot bring myself to it now 
Let them leave me alone.” 

“ Bertram,” said Lyle, “ I have always known by your 
speech, and by remarks which you have occasionally made, 
that you have not always been as you now are. "Will you tell 
me from whence you came ?” 

“ Guernsey,” answered the man, shortly ; but as he said the 
word, Henry Lyle perceived a dark cloud pass over his brow, 
and he forbore, therefore, to press the subject : yet presently, 
Bertram resumed of his own accord : 

“I am an old man now, Mr. Lyle ; older than you think., to 
look at me ; and I have seen many things during my life which* 
it were best, maybe, to forget. Let bygones be bygones, they 
can never be mended now ; but they have made me the man I 
am. I was not always at war with all the world.” 

“ Nor are you now, Bertram,” said Lyle ; “no man can be.” 

“ Something not unlike it,” said the man, in answer ; “ but 
never mind that, Mr. Lyle ; they never made me bend by ill* 


Henry Lyle. 


219 


treatment, never yet ; and they never shall,” said he fiercely, 
and striking his hand upon the table. “ The times have been 
when I have not had a morsel of bread, and did not know 
where to turn to get it ; but no one knew it ; I would have 
starved first.” 

“And yet,” observed Lyle, “you were not right, my dear 
fellow.” 

The man started at the unused familiar address, and turned 
his eyes on Lyle, who went on uninterruptedly : 

“ Independence of spirit is praiseworthy ; but I fear that 
there is more of pride than any other feeling in such conduct 
as you speak of.” 

“ You are right : there is,” said Bertram. 

“ And you would have been guilty had you starved for want 
of acknowledging your poverty.” 

“ Who could I have asked ?” demanded the man ; “ who 
would have given me anything but insult in return ?” 

“ Was there none you might have asked without shame ?” 
said Lyle. “ Are there no benevolent, kind-hearted people in 
the world, who would have assisted instead of insulting you ?” 

“No, none,’’ replied Bertram — “I knew none such. I 
have seen most of the evil side of the world, and have not 
stopped to look for the good.” He added, presently, “ I would 
have asked you, Mr. Lyle ; I would not mind taking anything 
of you, because ” He turned away his head, and studi- 

ously arranged some articles upon the table. 

Lyle moved towards the door, but Bertram followed him. 

“ You are the only man for many years,” said he, “ who 


220 


Henry Lyle. 


seemed to think me capable of acting otherwise than like a 
brute ; and therefore, I have been a brute towards all whom I 
came near ; and you are the only man, for longer than I care 
to recollect, who has thought it worth his while to hold out 
his hand to me. We get into adopting those qualities which 
are imputed to us, Mr. Lyle.” 

“ We must get rid of them again when we find out our mis- 
take,” said Henry, smiling ; ‘‘they must be of the bygones.” 

Bertram often alluded after this to days long past, with a 
nervous fancy for almost touching upon subjects which he 
knew would give him pain were they dwelt upon ; and more 
than once, Henry Lyle anticipated that the man was going to 
recount some of the incidents of his former life, in the new-born 
confidence which Lyle’s friendly conduct towards him had in- 
spired : but he never went further than allusions merely. On 
one such occasion, Lyle remarked in answer to a speech on the 
part nf his companion, 

“You must have had an eventful life, Bertram, and I should 
think an interesting one.” 

The man looked quickly towards Lyle, as if to see if any 
feeling akin to idle curiosity prompted the observation ; but his 
suspicious expression passed away as he looked at Henry, and 
he answered quietly, 

“ Yes, Mr. Lyle, mine has been, as you say, an eventfuLlife, 
perhaps an interesting one ; but do not ask me any questions 
about it. I have seen many changes : I have been a soldier, 
a traveller, and at one time,” added he, smiling grimly, “what 
some would call almost a gentleman ; that is, I have been a 


Henry Lyle. 


221 


well-to-do man ; and through all, I have been at enmity with 
mankind. I have not been well used by the world, Mr. Lyle, 
and perhaps I have not used the world civilly in return. I 
know what you will say,” he added, as he saw the face of 
Henry Lyle change in expression ; “It sometimes seems odd to 
me that you, so young a man compared to myself, should be so 
much further right than I am. I dare say, if the truth were 
known, I may be old enough to be your grandfather : and yet 
I have lived all these years in the world, and am still a fool, 
unknowing to the end what is the right. You will say it is my 
own fault ; and so it is ; but that does not take away from the 
unpleasantness of the fact, does it ? Don’t ever ask me of my 
past life, Mr. Lyle. If another man alluded to it, I would turn 
liim out of my house here : and I would rather you should 
not.” 

“ I never will, Bertram ; rest satisfied of that,” said Lyle. 
“ I should consider it an impertinence to inquire into facts 
which you may wish to pass unnoticed. As you have said, let 
bygones be bygones, except in the experience which they have 
given us.” 

So Henry Lyle never learned Bertram’s previous history 


222 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


“ My dear Augusta, will you come and dine with ns this 
evening, and bring that charming husband of yours with you ? 
We have some delightful creatures coming. You must not mind 
the abruptness of the invitation ; you are both so amiable, I 
know you will not. Now, mind ! I take no refusal ; come you 
must, and Mr. Lyle also. 

Miss Delaville paused to breathe, and Augusta turned to her 
husband, saying, laughingly, 

“ Can you go, you charming man ?” 

“ Of course he can,” rejoined Miss Delaville, who had recov 
ered from her exhaustion, “and of course he will ; in fact, we 
cannot do without him ; it is an age since you have been near 
us. That delightful Mr. Vere has returned to town, and ho 
will be with us ; there’s an inducement ! Now, good-by, 
good-by ; I am in a fearful hurry. Seven o’clock, you remem- 
ber” 


Henry Lyle 


223 


The lady flew out of the room, followed by Lyle, but the 
next moment flitted back again. 

“ I shall ask Mrs. Seymour to come to us also, I know you 
will like to see her.” 

“Very much indeed,” answered Augusta ; “ you are extreme- 
ly kind.” 

v Mind you make yourself look very nice ; but I am keeping 
you from going out ; you have your bonnet on : how very 
thoughtless of me !” 

“No, indeed,” Augusta replied, “we have just come in from 
walking, and I was about to take off my bonnet when you 
entered.” 

“ And where have you been, may I ask 2” said Miss Dela- 
ville. “ Come, confess.” 

“ We have been visiting some poor acquaintances of ours,” 
said Augusta, with a slight blush, of which she was the next 
moment ashamed, at the anticipated surprise of Miss Delaville. 

“ Poor acquaintances !” echoed that lady ; what poor ac- 
quaintances can you have 2” 

“ Poor people, then,” said Augusta. 

“ Beggars, do you mean 2” 

“Yes, beggars, some of them.” 

Miss Delaville made no effort to conceal her surprise. 

“ You do not mean,” said she, “ that you and Mr. Lyle go 
yourselves into such places 2 How dreadful ! Fancy being 
mixed up with sickness, and poverty, and vulgarity !” 

“ It is very dreadful,” answered Augusta, “ to be, as you say, 
mixed up with such sickness and poverty ; yet we are not tho 


224 


Henry Lyle. 


less mixed up with it, I fancy, by shutting our eyes to its 
existence.” 

“ But, surely, my dear Augusta,” exclaimed Miss Delaville, 
“ you do not mean to say you think it incumbent upon you to 
inquire into the domestic economy of every vagrant you may 
chance to meet with?” 

“ Ask Henry,” said Augusta, smiling ; “he knows I think 
as he thinks, and he can better put the thoughts into words 
than I can — in what degree such acts are incumbent upon us.” 

“ Oh, I cannot venture to ask Mr. Lyle,” returned the lady, 
with a would-be pretty assumption of timidity ; “I am afraid 
of him, quite ; he is so very uncompromising and particular.” 
But yet, turning towards Henry immediately afterwards, she 
said, “ Surely you do not think, Mr. Lyle, that it can be right 
for Augusta to go to all sorts of horrid sinks of iniquity and 
dens such as are described — such as we read of in the 
newspapers ?” 

“ No, I should not think it right that Augusta should go into 
sinks of iniquity and dens,” replied Henry, unable to restrain 
his sarcastic inclination for the moment. “ I should not think 
of placing my wife in any situation which would be shocking 
to modesty ox to propriety ; but mere poverty and sorrow, Miss 
Delaville, are not, in my opinion, shocking either to the one or 
the other. There are cases where the influence of a woman, 
and the sympathy of a woman only, can be introduced : in all 
cases you are better agents than we amongst the poor. Au- 
gusta can herself tell you, that she has known scenes where 
the rougher efforts at comfort of a man seem like cruelty. Your 


Henry Lyle. 


225 


sex is made for seasons of sorrow, Miss Delaville ; we are too 
rude at times, when we mean most kindly.” 

Miss Delaville laughed and looked pleased, but as a fresh 
objection rose to her mind, she said, 

“ Still, Mr. Lyle, it has always seemed to me that it is 
scarcely the province of ladies and gentlemen to see after such 
things.” 

“ Whose province is it, then, my dear madam ? I am afraid, 
were we to wait to find out whose duty it strictly may be, we 
should have the objects dying while the subject was discussed. 
It is, in my opinion, the province of every human being to take 
care of his fellow-creature as far as the opportunities are given 
him. I doubt if the plea will be hereafter considered suffi- 
cient,' 4 I was a gentleman, and therefore could not be expected 
to interest myself personally and practically in the welfare of 
others.’ Perhaps such an answer as this might be given : 
‘You were a man, and they were your fellow-men whom you 
neglected.’ ” 

Miss Delaville looked shocked, as if Henry Lyle had said 
something very objectionable, indeed almost profane, certainly 
unlike what most people were in the habit of saying. She 
paused in replying for a few seconds, and then said, 

“ You are a very odd man, and really say the most extraor- 
dinary things ; you have such unaccountable ideas, and take 
such a severe view of every-day life. I never could understand 
you ; but still, I do not believe you meah all you say. I do 
you the justice to think that.” 

“ The injustice, you should have said,” returned Lyle ; “ think 
10 * 


226 


Henry Lyle. 


me a fool if you will, in preference to thinking me a knave.’* 
Miss Delaville laughed again, and answered archly, 

“ You and Mr. Yere are very hard puzzles. I suppose, for 
the same reason, you are both geniuses ; and, really, geniuses 
are such very odd creatures ! Now, Mr. Yere comes some- 
times and talks for half an hour, and after he is gone we find 
that there has not been a word of truth in all he has said.” 

“ That is a great oddity, certainly,” said Henry, laughing ; 
“ I hope my singularity is not of the same order.” 

“ Oh, I cannot make you out. There, there, leave off speak- 
ing,” said Miss Delaville ; “ you are a charming Don Quixote, 
and Augusta a delightful enthusiast. Mind you come this 
evening. My goodness ! how the time goes. No, do not 
trouble yourself, Mr. Lyle ; I can find my way down alone. 
Good-by.” 

And the lady flew once more past Lyle, down the staircase, 
and was out of the house before he could follow her, having for- 
gotten for the last hour that she had been in “a fearful hurry.” 

And having also entirely forgotten the communication which 
she had formerly made to Augusta relative to Mr. Yere, which 
now recurred to Augusta’s mind, reviving all her feelings of 
annoyance at meeting him. Lyle noticed the silence which 
followed the departure of Miss Delaville, and inquired the 
reason of it, and for a moment Augusta was on the point of 
telling him ; but the old argument prevailed, and she deter- 
mined to keep the fact still to herself, and leave him in igno- 
rance of the evil ; and in order so to do, to treat Mr. Yere as 
always. 


Henry Lyle 


227 


CHAPTER XXXV, 


Lyle and Augusta dined that evening at Mrs. Delaville’s 
house, and, as they had been led to expect, met Mr. Yere, 
besides his mother, Mrs. Seymour, several other ladies, and 
half a dozen men, all coat-tails and whiskers, amongst whom 
was young B , whom we have previously mentioned. 

During the evening, Miss Delaville, ever ready to show her 
acuteness by taking her acquaintances to task, renewed the 
subject of discussion which had interested her in the morning, 
and attacked Mr. and Mrs. Lyle upon their chivalric interest 
in the poor around them. 

“ Of course, it is very right and very creditable,” screamed 
the lady. “ I would be the last, I am sure, to object to such 
self-devotion ; but what I say is this, where are you to stop ? 
It seems quite trifling to be assisting half a dozen, or perhaps 
more families, when really one reads such dreadful accounts of 
the poverty of the whole population, that anything we might 


228 


Henry Lyle. 


do would be a mere drop in the ocean. I suppose, now;” she 
continued, turning towards Henry Lylp, “ that you will differ 
from me, as usual, and bring some unanswerable argument 
against me.” 

“I am sorry you should think I usually differ from you, 
Miss Delaville,” said he. 

“ Do you not, though ? Come, never mind ; I knew you 
could not outwardly agree when you differ in principle, and no 
doubt I am generally wrong. You and I think so very con- 
trary, and are so very unlike in many things.” 

Miss Delaville spoke truly, although she scarcely intended 
what she said ; yet she did not pause to think which of the 
two was in the right, and which in error. 

“ You do not expect to regenerate the world, do you, Mr. 
Lyle ?” asked she. 

“ Miss Delaville,” asked Henry Lyle, “ did you ever hear -of 
a man named John Newton ?” 

“ Why, yes, I think I have ; but I forget what he was : a 
clergyman, or something, was he not ?” 

“ Something , at any rate,” answered Lyle. “ This man 
once said that he looked upon society as composed of two great 
heaps, the one of happiness, the other of misery ; ‘ and if/ to 
use his own words as far as I can recollect them, ‘ I can but 
take a few grains from the latter heap, and add to them to the 
former, so as to increase its bulk, I have not lived utterly in 
vain. If I meet a child crying for the loss of a halfpenny, and 
by giving it another I could stop its tears, I have done some- 
thing.’ Is not that a noble sentiment with which to travel 


Henry Lyle. 


229 


through life, Miss Delaville ? Is it not a sentiment worth the 
adoption of us all ? If we every one strove to remove hut a 
few grains from the heap of misery during our lifetime, how 
much the mound would daily decrease ! But we look at the 
entire wretched erection, and it appears to us, as it is, beyond 
our labours ; and we forget that it is composed of but grains, 
some of them very light.” 

“ Well, you are a good man, and I admire you very much, I 
do really,” said Miss Delaville ; and she moved away to talk 
to another of her guests, and equally admired all that was 
next said. 

The question was started, originated we know not where, 
of what constituted happiness on earth. 

“Oh yes ; now, pray, everybody give his opinion: that will 
be delightful,” exclaimed Miss Delaville. “We shall have 
such original ideas from some of you ! Who shall begin ? Sir 
William, you come first. Now, what is your idea of sublunary 
bliss r . 

“ A good dinner,” said Sir William S , making round 

eyes. 

“ How extremely droll ! you greedy man !” returned the 
lady ,; but we must be serious. We are not joking, you know ; 
every one must tell his real opinion.” 

“ Commence yourself, then, young lady,” said Sir William* 
gallantly. 

“ I? Oh, what shall I say ?” and Miss Delaville thought 
for a moment. “ Well, I think such an assembly as the pres- 
ent. Now, Sir William, it is really your turn.” 


230 


Henry Lyle. 


“ I am a Mede and a Persian ; still I say, a good dinner.” 

“You are an alderman, rather. Now, Mr. B ,” turning 

to the young author. 

“ Fame, public approval,” said he gravely. 

“ Now, is not that like him?” cried Miss Delaville ; “ and I 
am sure it is a very noble idea. Augusta, your turn.” 

“ Home,” said Augusta. 

“ Ridiculous child ! And Mr. Valentine Leigh, what do you 
say?” 

“ I have never decided, madam, what is true happiness,” 
answered Valentine ; “ but I think having plerfty of money is 
as good a style as, any, to my mind.” . 

“ So it is,” answered Miss Delaville ; and several others 
laughed, and said, “ So it is.” 

“ Mrs. Vere,” resumed Miss Delaville, after a pause, “ tell 
us your idea of what is happiness.” 

Mrs. Vere glanced towards her son, and was about to answer, 
when Miss Delaville, rightly interpreting her thoughts, although 
not forestalling what she was going to say, exclaimed, 

“ Your look is sufficient, my dear Mrs. Vere-; your idea is 
charming, although not put into words ; I am sure Mr. Arthur 
Vere ought to be proud. And now, Mr. Harding, it comes to 
your turn.” 

“ Mr. Clough Harding, who had contrived to push himself 
into the Delavilles, acquaintance, as he did on most occasions; 
answered shortly, 

“ Pipes and beer.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” laughed Miss Delaville, “ how very amus- 


Henry Lyle. 


231 


ing you are and in the supposed wit of the speech, the vul- 
garity of the sentiment was overlooked. “Mr. Harding, I have 
always said you are quite an original. Now, Mr. Lyle, I have 
been impatiently waiting that it should come to your turn ; 
what say you ?” 

“ Do you wish for my real opinion .?” asked Henry, “ or are 
we only in play ?” 

“ In play ? Of course not. Each sentiment stamps the 
character of the speaker. Now, be careful.” 

Henry Lyle coloured a little as he answered, for there was 
a dead silence, 

“You know what I think ; the endeavour to make the hap- 
piness of others.” 

Vere slightly sneered, but the change in his face was not 
observed, and young B exclaimed, 

“ You are right, Mr. Lyle ; and you have, without intending 
it, rebuked very many of us for our selfish sentiments ; you 
have given the best exemplification yet.” And moving 

towards Lyle, young B took a seat beside him, and the 

two entered into conversation together, for B was a man 

injured but not spoiled by society, and had in him the dawn- 
ings of noble things. 

“ We have not yet finished, though, ladies and gentlemen,” 

said Miss Delaville, returning to the charge. 

* 

“ I think we have had enough, have we not ?” said Yere ; 
“ the last answer seems to have given entire satisfaction.” 

“ No, not until you have, answered also,” replied the lady, 
*1 want intensely to hear what you will say. Come, Mr. 


232 


Henry Lyle. 


Vere, be so obliging as to tell me what is your conception of 
earthly happiness ?” 

Almost without his own consent, Vere, in answer, muttered 
between his teeth, 

“ Oblivion !” 

The general attention of the audience was turned from Vere, 

by some remarks by Mr. B upon a clever caricature 

which was lying upon the table. A group soon collected round 
the author, and Miss Delaville flew off to the new scene of 
action, to add her share to the noise and excitement. Mr. Vere 
was appealed to, and the drawing shown to him. His features 
relaxed so far as to form a very becoming smile, but he indulg- 
ed in no noisy merriment, like the others. 

The ladies laughed aloud, reckless of the injunctions of the 

“ rules of politeness and Mr. B , the originator of the 

fun, joined heartily in the laughter, having the good taste to 
suppose that his hearers were not more easily amused than 
himself, and making no superhuman endeavours to control his 
own risible muscles. 

Vere’s lip curled insensibly as he listened to the shouts of 
amusement, and perhaps he mentally commented on the folly 
of humanity. 

“What is it?” asked Henry Lyle, looking from one to the 
other of the faces, all lighted up, and ready to go off again at 
the least encouragement. His own features caught the infec- 
tion, and it was with some difficulty that he asked the ques- 
tion gravely. 

One of the men repeated the witticism of Mr. B , and 


Henry Lyle. 


233 


Henry Lyle flushed crimson to the temples, preparatory to fall- 
ing into convulsions. 

“ Don’t speak to me!” said he, as the gentleman before 
mentioned, seeing him nearly stifled with laughter, good- 
naturedly alluded again to the subject of mirth, touching it up 
and improving it— “ don’t speak to me, you’ll kill me.” 

Mr. Yere looked at Lyle, as he bent over the table, feigning 
to examine some very common-place illustrations in order to 
hide his face, but shaking all the time with laughter, with 
real surprise. 

“ I never knew a fellow more easily amused than Lyle,” 
observed Mr. B ; “ he laughs like a child at a joke.” 

“ Very easily amused,” Yere answered ; and he mused upon 
his own words, as he was in the habit of doing. 

It was years, many years since Yere remembered to have 
laughed so lightly — ever since he had become a man ; and 
why was it that Henry Lyle, of the same age as himself, an 
intellectual man also, not one of the “ crowd of fools,” as Yere 
would style them, still retained this childish propensity ? 

That night, going through the passage-gallery which led to 
his sleeping-room, the light which Arthur Yere carried fell 
upon a painting which hung against the wall. It was one 
which Mrs. Yere loved to look upon, which she would have 
had placed in her own apartment, had not its size prevented 
her doing so, its place being filled by a portrait of her son sincd 
he had become a man. 

This also was his portrait, but taken at a very early age ; an 
infant of two or three years old, almost unclothed, excepting 


234 


Henry Lyle. 


by a little shirt ; utterly careless, unconscious of observation 
and innocent. 

Arthur Vere was alone, and he sighed. He recollected the 

observation of Mr. B , the happy laughter of Lyle, and the 

long train of reflections which at the time they had induced ; 
and he muttered to himself, half aloud, “ Folly !” yet he knew, 
and felt, he was telling himself a lie. It was one of Arthur 
Yere’s better frame of mind, and he allowed the regret, which 
at other times he would drive away, to steal over his heart, as 
he looked at the picture of his infant self. It smiled at him 
reproachfully from the canvas, reminding him vividly of the 
time when feelings had been with him which latterly he had 
not chosen to know. 

Arthur Yere had not been brought up as many children are, 
from their earliest infancy learning the lessons of truth and 
wisdom : his first impressions were not of bent knees and 
clasped hands ; but they were still of innocent thoughts and 
aspirations. He remembered vividly, acutely, the many sea- 
sons of inward warfare which he had experienced, before he 
had succeeded in shaking off the tenderness of conscience and 
desire for better things which had influenced him then, 
and which shone out in the sweet countenance of child- 
hood. 

It was a lovely child, the one here represented ; the large, 
clear, dark eyes looking honestly upward ; the beautiful feat- 
ures and clustering hair. There were still in the living repre- 
sentative the faultless features, still the curling locks over the 
forehead ; but the sweet expression Was gone, worn out. Yere’a 


Henry Lyle. 


235 


smile was now a studied one ; his thoughtful mood was mourn- 
ful, his general expression fixed and stem. 

“ It is very like you still, dear Arthur,” said a voice close to 
him : his mother was, and had been for some moments past, 
standing by his side. 

“ Like me !” he exclaimed ; “ that like me ! That is the 
image of an innocent child. It is not like me.” 

Mrs. Yere looked surprisedly at her son. 

“ It was always considered very like, my dearest,” said she, 
gazing admiringly at him. “ You are handsomer as a man 
than you were as a child ; but still you are very like.” 

“ Handsomer !” echoed he, impatiently, speaking to himself 
and not to her, although she Had laid her hand fondly on his 
arm, and was looking up into his face. “ That child is inno- 
cent : can I ever have been like that ?” 

“My dearest boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Yere, affectionately, 
“ are not you well ?” She took his hand and kissed it, but he 
withdrew it impatiently from her. 

“ Was I ever like that child ?” he asked, looking quickly 
round at her. 

“Exactly,” she answered, without understanding the feeling 
which prompted the question, and taking his hand again in 
hers, not in the least rebuffed by his indifference and rudeness. 
“ Exactly, my darling. Oh, what a sweet child you were ! 
You were the most beautiful boy in the neighbourhood, my 
Arthur.” 

He did not hear all this which she had said, but continued 
gazing at the picture. 


236 


Henry Lyle. 


Soon Mrs. Vere was terribly alarmed by Arthur pressing both 
his hands over his brow, and groaning aloud, as if in pain. 
She would have called for help, but she remembered that all 
were in bed excepting themselves. She turned very pale, and 
watched him anxiously, afraid to ask him any questions, for 
Mrs. Yere stood greatly in awe of the son she so doted upon. 

“ Let that thing be removed,” said he, frowningly, pointing 
at the picture. “ Put it anywhere you choose, but do not let 
it stare at me.” 

Mrs. Yere would have remonstrated, had she dared, and 
would have asked what reason there was for such a demand ; 
as it was, she only acquiesced, with, 

“ Certainly, dear Arthur ; as you wish.” And the next 
morning the painting was carried out of the passage into an 
unused room. 

It was, and had been, ever thus. The movements of good 
were always put away. The old struggle of early years had 
revived this night, and again, as before, evil had triumphed over 
good. Once more the memory of innocence had been rejected, 
when it strove to argue with the better impulses of his heart. 
Arthur Yere turned his baok upon the picture, a worse, 
because not a better, man than before. 


Henry Lyle 


237 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Never by any relaxation in work, never by any murmur or 
complaint oh his part, did Henry Lyle evince it, yet from the 
affectionate solicitude of Augusta he could not conceal that he 
was ill. It came upon him very gradually, and was fought 
with and struggled against for many months ; but still there 
was no warding it off successfully. Sickness would be felt, 
and be attended to. 

To Augusta’s repeated inquiries Lyle always answered the 
same : It would pass off, it was nothing serious ; he was, 
perhaps fatigued ; he would now recreate himself; and all 
would be right : and Augusta fondly believed all that her 
husband told her, because she dared not, for her own peace, 
discredit it. Yet, one morning, all these hopes were put to 
flight, and Lyle’s illness undoubtedly confirmed by his deluging 
the room with blood, as he walked with more than usual haste 
towards the window. He did not speak a word, but turned 


238 


Henry Lyle. 


anxiously towards Augusta, fearing the effects which the 
catastrophy might have upon her. She had become ghastly 
pale as she saw the blood stream from her husband’s mouth ; 
but she gave no scream of diorror or surprise. She took his 
hand, and made him sit down, while he struggled with the faint- 
ness which he felt coming over him, and tried to smile 
at her. 

“ You must be very careful of him, young lady. You must 
not allow him to use any exertion, or to undergo any excite- 
ment ; and we shall be all right before long.” 

“ You do not think him in danger, then ?” exclaimed 
Augusta, in her agitation seizing the hand of the doctor with 
no very gentle grasp. 

“ In danger ? no, not in immediate danger. If you are 
careful, there is nothing to be apprehended, my dear Mrs. 
Lyle,” said the doctor, kindly patting her hand. “ Do not 
agitate yourself ; these accidents will happen ; but Mr. Lyle 
will soon be quite strong again, and well. The lungs are not 
materially injured.” 

The words, “ Do not agitate yourself,” were unfortunately 
spoken. Augusta could bear much : she was a true woman, 
therefore a true heroine ; but the compassionate sympathy of 
the kind old doctor, expressed both in words and actions, over- 
came her, and hiding her face in the sofa-cushion, she, for the 
first time in her life, went fairly into hysterics. Had she been 
told that Henry Lyle was ill past recovery, she would have 
bowed her head and borne it in silence ; but not that there 
was no danger, that he would soon be all right. 


Henry Lyle. 


239 


The doctor took her hand in his, and raising her from the 
sofa, said, in a stem voice, 

“ Mrs. Lyle ! My dear young lady, this is foolish and weak, 
and unlike yourself ; and, moreover, you are taking the very 
course which I have forbidden. You will agitate and disturb 
your husband.” 

It was not necessary to speak a second time to Augusta after 
such an argument as the concluding. She rose from the sofa, 
wiped the tears from her eyes, and tried to check the sobs 
which still would come at intervals. 

Be very careful of him, remember ; but such a caution, I 
think, it is scarcely necessary to give to you. Do not let him 
work at his easel, nor exert himself in any way.” 

Augusta strictly carried out the injunctions of the physi- 
cian. The painting remained unfinished, notwithstanding 
Lyle’s repeated asseverations that he was strong enough to 
work. 

Yet day after day the doctor’s bill lengthened, and the little 
fund which they had been able to save, decreased. Augusta 
became alarmed, as her husband, in spite of his declarations 
of strength, remained still incapable of movement or exertion ; 
and the doctor daily reiterated his cautions, even against too 
much speaking on Lyle’s part. 

The payment of Valentine’s debts had left Lyle without any 
resources but his own work ; he had started afresh from that 
moment. 

“ Gussy,” said Lyle, one day, after he had been thinking for 
some time in silence, “it is very unfortunate that I should 


240 


Henry Lyle. 


have fallen ill just at present, for we cannot so well afford 
it. I fear Dr. ’s hill will be a very long one.” 

“Do not think of that now, Harry,” said she, wishing to 
dismiss from his mind a subject which was ever present to 
her own. 

“ It must be thought of, Augusta. I wish Dr. would 

allow me to go out, I would call upon Mr. Grant, and ask him 
to assist me. I must borrow money, although it is very much 
against my inclination.” 

“ Cannot I go ?” she asked. 

“It is an unpleasant errand, Gussy. You would not 
like it.” 

“ I will go if you will allow me, Henry ;” and taking for 
granted the permission, Augusta put on her bonnet and walked 
to Mr. Grant’s. 

That gentleman received her with his usual kindness, but 
from the first moment of their interview she could perceive 
that there was something wrong. Mr. Grant was fidgety and 
ill at ease. He inquired minutely and with interest after 
Henry, and was much concerned to hear that he was still 
suffering ; and Augusta was still hesitating how to introduce 
the object of her visit, when Mr. Grant asked her if she had 
lately seen her brother Valentine. 

“Not for some days ; indeed, not for a week. Valentine 
does not come often to see us : he is always so much occupied, 
and I fancy he .does not find much amusement with us, partic- 
ularly since Henry has been ill.” 

“ Better for him, perhaps, if he went oftener. I am sorry 


Henry Lyle. 


241 


to say, my dear Mrs. Lyle, that your brother has not gone on 
at all well of late.” 

Augusta felt alarmed, and she inquired hastily, “ I hope he 
does not neglect his duties to you ?” 

“ I doubt,” replied the old gentleman, “ if he has any sense 
of his duty to me or anybody else. Excuse my speaking so 
freely, my' dear Mrs. Lyle. I am sorry to have to do so to his 
sister. I have not seen Leigh for a week past ; he has sent 
excuses very often lately, making a plea of illness, when I 
have afterwards found it to be but a plea of idleness or dissi- 
pation. I regret that he has not at all acted up to the 
promises with which he commenced with me.” 

“ I am very sorry to hear it,” said Augusta, feeling a strong 
disposition to cry — “ very sorry, indeed.” 

“ It is no fault of yours, my dear lady ; but I am myself 
very sorry that he has turned out so badly, especially 
after having been, as it were, guaranteed to me by Henry 
Lyle.” 

“ Valentine promised so repeatedly to behave steadily,” said 
Augusta. 

“ I know he did, and therefore he has the more shame that 
he broke his promise. His conduct has been a source of great 
annoyance and inconvenience to me, I can assure you. I 
cannot help wishing I had never seen him, for he has got his 
department of the business into a nice mess, which will put 
me to great expense 1;o get right again ; besides the confusion 
into which everything is thrown, by the uncertainty I have 
been in as to supplying his place.” 


242 


Henry Lyle. 


Augusta felt stunned by this blow, and all thought of carrying 
out the purpose of her visit to Mr. Grant was abandoned. 

“I am sorry to be obliged to take such a course,” resumed 
Mr. Grant, after a pause; “but I have borne very long 
with Leigh — longer than I would have done with any other 
person in my employ — out of regard to Henry, and I cannot, 
if only in justice to others, overlook his conduct any longer. It 
is painful to me to be obliged to say so much to his sister, but 
it is necessary, in order that you and Lyle may exonerate me 
with regard to your brother. I fear very much that Leigh has 
contracted some unfortunate intimacies.” 

Augusta tried to bear all this patiently, and she did so ; but 
the tears fell fast from her eyes as she left Mr. Grant’s house, 
with her office unfulfilled, and hurried towards her own home. 

“You were quite right, Gussy,” said Lyle, after having 
listened to her recital of what Mr. Grant had said — “ quite 
right, dear. You could not in common decency have asked 
for his assistance after having heard all this ; it would be too 
much to expect Mr. Grant to help us now. It is unfortunate 
that that avenue of hope is closed, but we must try to think 
of something else. I am distressed about Valentine ; I had 
hoped better things of him.” 

How distressed Lyle did not say ; he strove to turn the 
conversation to other things, and spoke hopefully ; but as he 
wiped his mouth throughout the day, Augusta’s heart ached to 
see the handkerchief was stained with blood. 


Henry Lyle. 


243 


• * •' .)' • * 

. . . . .,.-f . t 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 


To find Valentine was the next step, and discover how far 
his rebellion had gone : but this was a difficult matter. , Natu- 
rally,, he was shy of coming to Lyle’s house, knowing that he 
had broken his word to him and forfeited his honour. Yet 
Augusta was unremitting in her endeavours to meet her brother, 
and after two or three days she succeeded in doing so. Mrs. 
Seymour informed her that she expected Valentine would call 
one afternoon, and Augusta, without allowing her brother to 
be told of her intention, met him at the house of their mutual 
friend. 

Valentine started, blushed, and looked uncomfortable when 
he saw his sister enter shortly after he had arrived; and. to 
Augusta’s, 

“ Why, Val ! what have you been doing lately ? — why do 
you never come and see us now ?” he stammered some unin- 
telligible answer. 


244 


Henry Lyle. 


“ It is unkind in you,” continued Augusta, “ for Henry has 
been so very ill, and I so anxious for him.” 

“ Oh, I should only have been in the way, you know, Gussy,” 
said Valentine, awkwardly. “ I felt that, and thought I had 
better keep away.” 

“Was that your reason for avoiding coming to us?” asked 
Augusta, looking at him fully. “ It was scarcely a kind one : 
but there was another reason, I believe, Valentine, which, I 
confess, is more allowable than the one you have given, though 
no less to your discredit.” 

“ What on earth do you mean, Augusta ?” said the young 
man, looking at his sister with an assumed boldness in his 
eyes. 

“You need scarcely ask the question, Valentine. Mr. Grant 
has told me of your late conduct.” 

“ Mr. Grant !” interrupted Valentine. “ What right has Mr. 
Grant ” 

“ Every right, I should think, considering it his business you 
have neglected, and his money you have wasted, or rather 
omitted to improve. Every right, in that you have insulted 
him by breaking your word with him.” 

“ Come, come, that’s quite enough,” said Valentine, gloomily. 
“ I don’t see what affair it is of yours to take me to task for 
what I have done, or not done. It is not your business, 
Augusta.” 

“ Your interests must always be mine, Valentine, whether 
you will or no. You are wrong, as well as unkind, in refusing 
my interference. I very much fear that you have become 


Henry Lyle. 


245 


intimate again with Mr. Harding, by the unfortunate change 
for the worse which you show.” 

“No, indeed,” answered Valentine, sharply; “I do not 
mean to have anything further to do with Clough Harding : 
he played me a shabby trick before, and, as Vere says, he is a 
vulgar-minded fellow.” 

“ Vere !” exclaimed Augusta. “ How came you acquainted 
with Mr. Vere ?” 

“ Well, Miss Augusta, I suppose I may be acquainted with 
Vere as well as you. He is a capital good fellow — the best 
fellow in the world.” 

“ The very words you used, I remember, with regard to Mr. 
Clough Harding, some time ago ; and you know what kind of 
a capital fellow he proved.” 

“ Clough Harding !” said Valentine, contemptuously. “Vere 
is a man of talent and genius, and a perfect gentleman ; I am 
under obligations to him, and am proud of having him for a 
friend.” 

“ Valentine,” said Augusta, sadly, “ I am afraid, if I say 
what I think, that I shall again offend you ; yet, at the risk 
of doing so, P must warn you against Mr. Vere. A man of 
talent and genius he is, but I have known him longer than 
you have : are you aware that he is a man of little principle, 
and very unsettled in his opinions ?” 

“Pooh!” said Valentine, rudely, forgetting, after the manner 
of the school of Mr. Clough Harding, that his sister was a 
gentlewoman. “I tell you what, I admire Vere in every 
way. He is a fine, liberal-minded fellow, without any hum- 


246 


Henry Lyle. 


bug or cant about him. Just the man for the present day.” 

“ And what.” asked Augusta, finding that it was useless to 
combat her brother’s opinions, and therefore hopelessly dropp- 
ing the subject — “ and what do you intend doing now ?” 

“ Doing ! what on earth can I do ?” said he, doggedly. 

“ That is the question I would ask of you. Have you 
thought of nothing ? You must be aware that all chance of 
Mr. Grant’s taking you on again is at an end. Desides, how 
could you guarantee your future conduct?” 

“ I don’t want Grant to take me on again. I want no one 
to guarantee me,” said Valentine. 

“ Do not be ridiculous, Valentine. You must live, I sup- 
pose ; and what are you to do ?” 

“ I am sure I do not know,” said the weak young man, 
sinking into a chair, and beginning to shed tears. “I don’t 
know what to do. I am so miserable, I feel inclined to hang 
myself.” 

“ I do not, either, know what you can do, Val. We are 
ourselves very badly off at present. Henry’s illness has been 
a very expensive one, and I know we cannot assist you.” 

“ Can’t you?” asked Valentine, meanly lost to all sense of 
independence and personal exertion. 

“ No,” said Augusta, decidedly. 

“ Really, it is very hard upon a man that he cannot get on. 
What on earth am I to do ? Augusta, do try and advise me,” 
said he, turning in his distress to his stronger-minded sister. 

“ Think for yourself, Valentine. Yet, one thing I would 
advise you to do before you attempt anything else.” 


Henry Lyle. 


247 


‘‘What is that?”, ' 

“ Make an apology to Mr. Grant for your rudeness towards, 
and neglect of him. You owe it.” 

“ Oh, come, I can’t do that,” said Valentine. 

“ I shall think the worse of you if you do not. I might 
advise you also to choose better and more useful associates ; 
but I fear you will not well receive such advice.” 

Valentine was completely subdued, and he whined over the 
state of his affairs in an inane and unmanly way, so that 
Augusta with some difficulty smothered a feeling of contempt 
which rose in her bosom against him. 

Valentine promised all, promised to strive and procure 
employment. Fortunately he was not in debt. The next 
time she heard of him it was by letter, saying that he had gone 
abroad, and was spending his days very pleasantly, but giving 
no account whatever of the way in which, or the means by 
which, he lived. 

Augusta and Henry Lyle never saw Mr. Grant again. The 
kind old man died a few days following the interview men- 
tioned in the last chapter. Henry Lyle .received a formal note 
informing him of the fact, and shortly afterwards an intimation 
that Mr. Grant had mentioned him in his will. 

Like many other kind-hearted men, Mr Grant had been 
careless and indolent in business ; his affairs were found to be 
in disorder at his death ; it was doubtful whether all the 
legacies could be paid, and there was greater than usual delay 
in settling things. All this was told to Henry Lyle at large, 
in order, no doubt, to avoid his demanding his legacy any 


248 


Henry Lyle. 


earlier than custom dictated : so that vehicle of assistance was 
entirely closed to them, had Henry Lyle contemplated at some 
future time applying again to his friend ; ^et still his illness 
went on, and Dr. ’s claim upon him increased day by day. 

Dr. became very fussy and uncomfortable, although he 

did not allow the Lyles to observe he was so ; for the money 
which Mr. Grant’s firm held of his could not be paid upon his 
demand. It was an unavoidable delay, but it put the doctor 
to inconvenience, and an inconvenience was always a subject 
for fuming and fussing with him, and for getting red in 
the face. 

Augusta, in the midst of her anxieties, distressed herself 
about her brother’s * conduct, and she sought to influence him 
to better things by writing to him.;' but Valentine was not to 
be swayed by any written arguments and entreaties. Person- 
ally, he might be bent in either direction by the last speaker ; 
his life had been composed of constant waverings and vacilla- 
tions, without fixed principle upon any one subject in life ; to- 
day it was the opinion of this acquaintance, and to-morrow 
another had contradicted what Valentine at the time had 
^imagined himself to believe. His mind seemed never to 
advance, for it was allowed no time thoroughly to imbibe an 
idea before it was displaced by an opposing influence. Valen- 
tine Leigh would have made a not unamiable woman, although 
not a respeotable one, for such a character as his would have 
become but a copy of whatever stronger mind it was placed in 
contact with. As a man, he was contemptible in the extreme. 

Some feeling of shame probably mingled with the averseness 


Henry Lyle. 


249 


which Valentine evinced to keeping up communication with 
his sister. He could not hut remember the services which 
Henry Lyle had done him ; perhaps his own asseverations of 
sincerity and promises of good towards Lyle still rose to his 
mind. The letters which Augusta wrote him were left 
unnoticed, and his sister had no means of hearing news of him ; 
so she learnt at length to satisfy her own mind that all would 
come right at the last ; that Valentine would some day again 
meet with a better angel, and would be as easily converted to 
good as he had been perverted the opposite way. 

It was not for some years afterwards that she read of his 
death in the public paper as taking place at some town on the 
Continent, — by whom inserted Augusta never knew ; and this, 
after any affection which might have arisen in her heart 
towards him during her brief knowledge , of her brother, had 
been worn out. Augusta pever knew how Valentine had died, 
and how, until then, he had lived, — whether in the manners 
and habits of a Clough Harding, the principles of a Vere, or 
the practical virtues of a Lyle. 


11 * 


250 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


“ Then what next was to be done ?” thought Augusta, foi 
some effort must be made to avert the prospect of daily want. 
Henry Lyle continued ill, and the doctor did not cease his 
attendance, and there were many incidental expenses necessary 
in a sick house, which must be met in some way. 

“ I shall try to get employment of some kind, Harry,” said 
Augusta, after one of her long trains of thoughts upon the one 
subject on her return home. 

“ My dearest Gussy ! what could you do ?” he asked. 

“What do other women do, who are obliged to work for 
their own and others’ support ? What has been done may be . 
done again ; I shall ask the advice of Mrs. Seymour, and lose 
no time in procuring work.” 

Henry Lyle gave her no answer for a few minutes ; when 
he did so, he drew her to him, and held his arm round her as 
he said, 


Henry Lyle, 


251 


“ T t is reversing things, Gussy, that you should work ; I did 
not lead you to expect this when you married me.” 

“ You led me to expect that we were to suffer together, as 
well as to rejoice together, Harry, — at least, so I have always 
anticipated. Why should not I try to work? You have 
worked for me always. You do not know how proud I should 
feel if I can succeed in my wishes.” 

“ Dearest Augusta !”, 

“ But Dr. ’s hill ?” continued she : “ that is what 

puzzles me most ; I shall never he able to realize a small 
fortune and pay that off.” 

“ Does Dr. know how we are situated ?” asked Lyle. 

“ No; I have never entered into such particulars with him.” 

“ Then tell him, Gussy, the state of the case : he is a kind- 
hearted, gentlemanly man, and I regret having to ask him to 
wait, hut I never could have anticipated this unfortunate 

business with Mr. Grant. Tell Dr. that as soon as I am 

able to work I will pay his debt, and meanwhile, I must try 
to get well as fast as I can, Gussy : it is now a matter of 
honesty. 

Dr. would listen to none of Augusta’s excuses. He had 

already suspected how matters were, and kindly insisted that 
he required no payment for months, or even years ; it was all 
the same to him, but Lyle must not set to work too soon. 

He omitted, however, saying that the non-payment was by 
no means convenient to him at that time. He was a poor 
man, with a large family, with all the largeness of heart which 
poor gentlemen so eminently possess. He heartily shook the 


262 


Henry Lyle. 


hand of Augusta, fold her to look forward hopefully and take 
care of her husband, and did not choose to discontinue his 
visits. 

Mrs. Seymour entered with energy into Augusta’s plans, 
and the next few days were spent in seeking for employment, 
At first, plain work was suggested, but this idea was soon 
abandoned, and an engagement was entered into with a Berlin 
and fancy-work establishment ; and Augusta felt herself as 
having acquired fresh importance when, for the first time, she 
displayed before the eyes of her husband the materials to be 
made up into specimens of various useless ornaments for the 
drawing-room. 

Bo, week after week, Henry Lyle lay upon the sofa, and 
Augusta sat by his side, busy with the pretty nothings which 
now earned their livelihood. 

“How well I remember,” said she, one day, looking up 
from the work and addressing her husband, “ mamma laughed 
at me long ago for expending so much energy upon learning a 
new stitch. Dear Philip teased me too, about it. In those 
days, in my heart ,1 also despised such trifling occupations, 
although I recolleet that I woujd not have acknowledged it to 
Philip. How little I then thought I should have to bring all 
my energies to work upon such things as this, and in what a 
cause !” 

He listened to her remarks with his eyes fixed on her face, 
but gave no answer. 

“ I could not now look upon this work as trifling ; the cause 
has made it almost sacred to me. Does it ever seem to you 


Henry Lyle. 


253 


that all the events of our lives are enacted to us many times 
over again ? I do not know exactly how to express myself. 
Things appear to go round, and bring us always back to the 
same feelings My darling Harry !” 

For he had turned his face upon the pillow, away from her. 

“Mamma told me I was wasting my time,” continued 
Augusta, talking cheerfully to divert Lyle’s thoughts, and 
forcibly checking the tears which inopportunely trickled down 
her face ; “ but I obstinately insisted upon conquering the 
difficulty, and dear Philip; ” 

“ Dear Gussy ! are you speaking of me at this very moment V 
said the well-known voice of Philip Wilson ; and simultane- 
ously with the sound her cousin appeared at the door. He 
was warmly welcomed by both Lyle and Augusta, but the 
pleasure which had sparkled in Philip’s eyes as he entered, 
fled as he looked at his friend. 

“ My dear Lyle, I am so distressed, you can’t think. What 
made you get ill, you stupid fellow ! And I should not have 
come in suddenly upon you, I believe ; I am such an impet 
uous fool, I am always doing mischief.” 

“ On the contrary, my dear Philip,” said Henry ; “it does 
me good to see you. Sit down, and tell us all you have been 
doing, and all you have seen, and how you are. Go on talk- 
ing, like a dear fellow, and do not wait for me to answer you.” 

Philip was a very good hand at talking, and he kept Lyle 
and Augusta amused for hours that afternoon, recounting all 
his adventures and his prospects. He had not done much, but 
he had irons in the fire. His future was promising — nothing 


254 


Henry Lyle. 


yet realized : and in return, Augusta told of 'all that had taken 
place since Philip left, lightly and cheerfully telling even the 
difficulties of their position, for Lyle’s sake, and occasionally, 
as she did so, glancing towards her husband, to see if anything 
she said pained him. 

Philip Wilson intuitively guessed her caution, and listened 
without comment to all she told him, joining in her hopes of 
brighter days, and talking of Lyle’s quick recovery. 

“ But you have had nothing to eat, Philip !” exclaimed 
Augusta, as there occurred a break in the very animated con- 
versation which had taken place. “ What a shame in me not 
to think of it !” And she left the room for a few minutes. 

“ You must take what is in the house, Philip,” said she, on 
her return : “ there is no time for preparations. Come down 
stairs with me.” 

Philip Wilson needed no second bidding. He nodded to 
Lyle, and quickly followed his cousin ; but it was with 
thoughts very far off from dinner that he entered the dining- 
room. 

“ Oh, Gussy!” exclaimed he, as soon as he found himself 
alone with her, “it breaks my heart to see things going so 
badly with you.” 

“ Do you then think that Henry is ?” commenced she, 

turning very pale. 

“ No, no, dear ; I did no-t mean that,” said Philip. “ God 
grant that Henry may soon be well again ! No doubt he will 
be. It was of money matters I would speak.” 

“ Money !’’ said Augusta, with something of contempt in her 


Henry Lyle. 


255 


tone; “-do not distress yourself, Philip; when Henry is well, 

all will go right. Dr. will wait for payment ; and I can 

manage from day to day, thank God.” 

Philip sat down, and laid his head upon the table. 

“ What a fool ! what an idle, useless, good-for-nothing 
nonentity I have been ! Of what use have been these hands 
to me or others ? Why was I made a great strong fellow, if I 
had not been intended to work ? I blush at seeing my own 
muscles, to think how they might have been of service to a 
more industrious man. Even the little income which I had I 
have invested in a doubtful speculation, from a disinclination 
to work my way up slowly but surely. Augusta, at such a 
time as this, I ought to have been able to step forward to your 
assistance, and I am useless, utterly useless. Oh ! how often 
my uncle Leigh has told me that labour was as much my her- 
itage as that of other men, and I laughed at the suggestion.” 
Philip covered his face with his hands, and shed tears of honest 
regret. 

“ Do not, dear Philip,” said Augusta, putting her arm round 
him ; “ I know well that you have the will to help us, if you 
have not the power.” 

“What is the use of the will only, Gussy? So any fool 
might say. I ought to have had the power. ; had I been a 
man, I should have had the power. An idiot, a bedridden 
man, a child could do no less, than live as I have done.” 

“ Philip, dear, do you know, you distress me very much by 
your self-reproaches,” said Augusta. 

“ Gussy, I had intended remaining in England for some little 


256 


Henry Lyle. 


while, idling my time still further, in fact ; hut I will not do 
so ; I shall return at once from whence I came. I will work, 
I promise you : I swear to you, Augusta, that I will exert every 
energy I possess to help you on. Will you helieve me ?” 

“ Implicitly, Philip. I have always believed in your affec- 
tion, and your truth and honour.” 

“ Then God bless you, dear. Tell Lyle I will come and see 
him to-morrow. Tell him I am in England only for a few 
days.” And he moved towards the door. 

Augusta glanced at the table, the decorum of which had not 
been in the least disturbed. 

“ I could not touch anything, Gussy. Do not ask me,” said 
Philip. And the next moment he left the house. 

Philip’s life was one of continual regrets, but they were hon- 
est and well-founded .ones. He was acutely alive to his own 
faults, although he had not always had the energy to correct 
them, and avoid their consequences ; but where his heart was 
concerned, he required no stronger inducement to overcome 
his natural indolence. 

Mrs. Seymour became the depository of his impetuous lam- 
entations on this his visit to England. From the Lyles’ house 
he flew to her, and descanted upon the poverty, as he imagined 
it, in which he had found his friends ; but upon Mrs. Seymour’s 
expressing surprise at his words, Philip suddenly remembered 
that he had been desired by Augusta to refrain from repeating 
the particulars of their difficulties, for Mrs. Seymour’s heart 
was much more expanded than her income. (Why is it gen- 
erally so, that the inclination for good goes with the accession 


Henry Lyle. 


257 


of fortune ? or that the selfish and ungenerous are more 
frequently given riches? Because they are already selfish; and 
the simple-hearted might learn to he of their school, were they 
to acquire wealth. God grant that we may never he rich, if 
fortune must he an exchange for generous feelings !) And 
Lyle still hoped personally to set himself right before long. He 
required but time, he had said, and Philip respected the feeling, 
the old feeling of independence, which made his cousin recoil 
from unnecessarily asking assistance. 

“But you intend to be rich some day, Philip,” said Mrs, 
Seymour, consolingly, “ and then you can assist Augusta ; hut 
I do not think, my dear, she is to he pitied for having to exert 
herself. I had once to work : indeed, Augusta seems to like it, 
and it is better for her than brooding over Henry’s illness : she 
might begin to fancy he is dying. I have offered her all I 
could offer, but Gussy refused it.” 

“ God bless you !” said Philip. “ I am always intending, 
and never realizing. Oh, I wish I were not such an idle 
fellow !” 

Mrs. Seymour smiled. 

“ Don’t laugh at me, dear Mrs. Seymour,” said he ; “it is 
not now merely an idle wish, as it has been for my life 
through. You shall see if it is. I have learnt practically to- 
day the necessity for exertion. By experience ! Can we be 
taught only by experience — and it such a painful way of learn- 
ing ? It seems to me as if everything in life is learnt just a 
little too late : after all the mischief is done we grow wise, and 
determine to do better, when there is no work left for us. 


258 


Henry Lyle. 


Is there no other effectual way of learning than by experi- 
ence V 9 

“ Moralizing again, Phil ! Don’t begin that, my dear, or we 
shall have no work done,” answered Mrs. Seymour, laugh- 
- ingly. 

“ Don’t prophesy evil of me. I will work. I shall leave 
England at once, again. There is no neqessity for my staying 
here, excepting to waste money.” And, as if about instantly 
to put his purpose in execution, Philip Wilson rose from his 
seat, kissed Mrs. Seymour, and wished her good-by. 

As he had promised, Philip went to the Lyles the following 
day, to wish them also adieu. As he neared the house his 
heart beat quickly, and the blood flowed tumultuously through 
his veins. He hurried over his parting, and left them, prom- 
ising to write before long. As he walked furiously down the 
street, after the door had closed upon him, he raised his hat 
from his brows, for the weight of it seemed to oppress him, and 
inwardly agreed with his own mind that it was better for him 
to be out of England ; and, like a brave man, he crushed 
without delay the thoughts and wishes which the late meeting 
with his cousin had revived. 

Thoughts and wishes which, allowed to gain ground, would 
have made Philip Wilson no longer the honest, single-hearted 
man he was ; and yet it can be but little wrong to think and 
dream over the things which have been, which might have 
been, had circumstances turned otherwise. So Philip might 
have argued, as each of us argues to himself, when loth to part 
with the fancies which he loves, yet doubts of. 


Henry Lyle. 


259 


Philip Wilson had dearly loved his cousin with all the 
strength of an upright heart: he loved her still, and strove 
only for her happiness and good. 

Arthur Yere had passionately loved Augusta. He indig- 
nantly denied to himself that he still loved her. He sought 
neither her happiness nor good, and would have sought her 
ruin, had he for a moment dreamt it possible. 


260 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


One morning Mr. Yere waited Upon Dr. . The doctor 

was unprepared for the visit, and raised his eyebrows by way 
of inquiry as bre saw the stranger. 

“ You are surprised at my intrusion, I perceive, sir. I have 
called on behalf of Mr. Lyle, who, I believe, is well known to 
you.” 

“ On behalf of Mr. Lyle !” echoed the doctor, without any 
abatement of his surprise. 

“ Mr. Lyle is a personal acquaintance of mine ; a friend, I 
hope I may* say! I feel an interest in his affairs.” 

Still the doctor did not appear to comprehend the purpose 
of Mr. Yere’s visit, and the latter added, 

“ He is in your debt, I believe, sir ?” 

“ Mr. Lyle is at present in my debt, sir,” said Dr. — — , 
stiffly ; “ but he is aware that I have no intention of pressing 
the payment of the debt. I respect Mr. Lyle very much, and 
shall endeavour to make mv time convenient to his.” 


Henry Lyle. 


261 


“ No one can respect Henry Lyle more than I do,” returned 
Yere, “ and I honour the man who showed to him such great 
kindness in a time of difficulty. I can assure you, sir, that I 
am grateful to you for your consideration towards my friend 
and schoolfellow.” 

“ There is no need of thanks, Mr. Yere,” said the doctor, 
relaxing from his stiffness. ct Mr. Lyle is a man in whom I feel 
an interest, and I was glad to he able to do him a service, even 
at the expense of some inconvenience.” 

Dr. could not forbear letting Mr. Yere know that it had 

been an inconvenience to him to defer Lyle’s debt. 

Yere was silent for a few moments, as if embarrassed with 
the shyness of introducing a difficult question. Dr. wait- 

ed patiently for him to speak, and meanwhile examined, with 
apparent interest, his own nails. 

“ Dr. , X have said that Henry Lyle is a personal friend 

of mine : would you permit me to act the part of a friend 
towards him and discharge the debt, and relieve you of the 
inconvenience you alluded to ?” 

“But,” said the doctor, would Mr. Lyle consent? Is he 
aware that you are making such a proposal ?” 

“ I am afraid that Lyle would be very angry with me, did 
he know that I have done so ; he is thoroughly independent, 
and I honour him for it,” said Yere, laughing slightly; “I 
should not dare tell him- at once what I fiad done ; but, poor 
fellow, he is really rather hard pressed just now, and will be, 
until he has his health again.” He paused, and then added, 
“ Will ymi allow me, my dear sir, to repeat my offer?” 


262 


Henry Lyle. 


“ And what when Mr. Lyle reverts to the debt ?” inquired 
the doctor. 

“ Tell him that it has been cancelled, but do not mention 
by whom,” answered Yere. 

The doctor looked at him for a short time mutely, then held 
out his hand towards him. 

“ You are a kind-hearted and a noble-minded man, Mr. 
Yere ; you have my sincere admiration.” 

“My dear sir,” said Yere, deprecatingly, “I pray you, do not 
speak so ; it would be but a common act of friendship.” 

Dr. was by no means sorry to have his debt paid with- 

out further trouble, and in his simplicity and kindness showed 
his satisfaction in his looks. 

“ But Mr. Lyle’s acknowledgment, for he would give me 
one : shall I give it to you, Mr. Yere ?” 

“ That, I think, may go into the fire,” said Yere, carelessly ; 
and he leaned over the grate as the doctor was busy at the 
other end of the room, and placed the note in his waistcoat- 
pocket instead of giving it to the flames. Dr. came for- 

ward and handed Yere the receipt for the money, at which the 
latter gentleman laughed, and saying, “ This looks very formal 
indeed, my dear sir,” placed it also in his pocket. 


Henry Lyle 




CHAPTER XL. 


Both the Miss Delavilles looked very shocked : the elder 
was quite put out in her crochet calculations that morning, 
and Miss Bella shrugged her shoulders. Each equally longed 
for some opportune visitor that day, to whom might he detailed 
all the particulars of the startling facts ; the welcome person 
came in the form of Mr. Yere. He was not allowed long to 
remain in ignorance of the prevailing excitement. The fire 
was opened by the elder cff the ladies. 

“Now, what do you think, Mr. Yere? you will never 
believe me, but, really, it is very distressing.” 

“ It is, indeed , ** said Yere ; “I fully believe you.” 

“ What a droll man !” said Miss Delaville ; “ listen first to 
what I am speaking of — poor Augusta Lyle !” 

Yere turned quickly round towards the lady, and seemed 
about to make some hasty exclamation, but he forbore, and 
said in a quiet voice, 


264 


Henry Lyle. 


“What of Mrs. Lyle?” 

“Why, with his illness, and the mismanagement of his 
affairs, I suppose — he is no hand at business, you know — and 
one thing and another ” 

“ He ? I thought you were about to tell me of your friend 
Mrs. Lyle,” interrupted Vere. 

u Yes, yes ; but of course I mean her husband.” 

‘ Oh, of course ; I beg pardon.” 

“ Well, I find they are so reduced, he being unable to work, 
that — what do you think, Mr. Yere ? Augusta, poor thing ! is 
actually taking in needlework for their support !” 

“ Poor thing !” echoed Miss Bella, in a tone of deep commis- 
eration. 

Mr. Yere made no answering comment until Miss Delaville 
added, 

“ Is it not dreadful, now ?” 

“ Yery dreadful, indeed,” he said, mechanically. 

“ But the worst part of it is this,” rejoined Miss Delaville ; 
“ if people are reduced, I can imagine their being obliged to do 
such things, to work for their support ; but I can assure you, 
Mr. Yere, that Augusta Lyle spoke of it to-day in the most 

open manner before Mr. B . I never was more shocked in 

my life : of course, he could not, as a gentleman, express any 
surprise ; but what must he have thought ?” 

“ Probably, that Mrs. Lyle takes in needle-work for her own 
and her husband’s support,” said Yere, quietly. 

“ But surely, one need not talk of such things. One would 
think that Mrs. Lyle had been a workwoman all her life, by 


Henry Lyle. 


265 


the cool manner in which she spoke : I felt quite ashamed 
for her.” 

“ That was very kind in you,” observed Mr. Yere. 

“ Yes ; at any rate, if I must do such things, I would not let 
all the world know,” ejaculated Miss Bella ; and then added, 
“ I heard Mrs. Jerningham say — you know Mrs. Jerningham?” 

“ The lady who giggles and lisps. Yes, I have that 
honour,” said Yere. 

“ Well, I heard Mrs. Jerningham say, that she really did 
not know which way to look when she was in one of the 
fancy-work shops in Regent-street, and Mrs. Lyle entered. She 
spoke to the woman behind the counter in the most uncon- 
cerned manner of the work she had been doing herself ; and 
then seeing Mrs. Jerningham, turned round to her, and talked 
just in her old style. I would take some time, when there 
was not a chance of meeting with my acquaintances, I must 
say, for carrying out business of that sort. I would have a 
little more proper pride.” 

“ And yet,” said Yere; in love with candor when shown to 
him in the person of Augusta, “ if Mrs. Lyle is not ashamed of 
doing the act, why should she blush to acknowledge it ? If 
there is shame connected with it, let it be left undone.” 

Miss Delaville looked surprised, as if she thought her visitor 
was talking badinage, and Yere continued : 

“ I perceive I have astonished you by personating, for how- 
ever small a moment, the moralist ; I have assumed a charac- 
ter not my own, you think. Well, it is easily thrown off again. 
Let us be world] y-minded and critical, and be properly ashamed 


% 


266 


Henry Lyle. 


of all that fashion might not appreciate. Mrs. Lyle might have 
been excused for taking in needlework ; indeed, some might 
romantically say such an occupation is praiseworthy, looking at 
the influencing motive ; but bravely to do so, without conceal- 
ment or disguise — good gracious ! what will people think ?” 

Miss Delaville did not exactly know how to take this speech * 
she was at a loss for an answer for a moment ; but she was a 
lady not easily silenced, and soon recovering her surprise, she 
said, 

“ I never could understand you, you droll creature ! Some- 
times I almost think you are laughing at me.” 

“ Never, l hope,” said Yere, looking serious. 

“ I don’t believe a word you say, you know,” said the lady, 
facetiously. “ You have always some hidden meaning in every 
speech, and are really the most jesuitical and amusing man I 
know.” 

“ I believe all you tell me.” said Yere, “ and especially the 
latter sentence.” 

“ Do you hear him ?” appealed, generally, Miss Delaville. 
“ Conceited wretch ! There, go and talk to mamma or to Bella, 
to any one rather than to me, if they will endure you patiently, 
I am tired of you.” And immediately after the lively lady was 
rattling on in the same mad manner, forgetful of her mental 
fatigue ; while Arthur Yere, with a smile of attentive amuse- 
ment on his lips, and an occasional brilliant answer, was out- 
wardly all-observant of her conversation, while his thoughts 
were wandering away to Augusta Lyle, working for the 
support of her sick husband. 


Henry Lyle. 


267 


There was in the heart of Arthur Yere still that “ pledge 
and token of a better natur?,” the capacity of venerating virtue 
in others, a vestige which he strove hard to clear away, and 
succeeded admirably in his endeavours to hide from others. 

It has been said by some modern author, that in the days of 
Charles the Second, those courtiers who made show of the 
greatest profligacy and irreligion, were the highest favourites 
with the ladies, because they went to greater lengths of infi- 
delity, or, indeed, profanity, than the women naturally dared 
to go themselves ; and that these were looked upon by their 
fair admirers as a species of heroes in wickedness. Could it 
be some such feeling in the minds of the Miss Delavilles which 
caused their enthusiastic admiration for Mr. Yere, whom they 
acknowledged to be “ shockingly wicked,” at the same time 
that he was “ charmingly clever?” 

It has sometimes occurred to us that young men and boys 
feel a kind of mock bravery in having done something worse 
than the generality would do at their ages ; as if those who are 
most fearless amongst men, are not ever the same who stand 
most in dread of offending. God. 

True courage is much miscalculated ; and that which is 
called boldness, is very often nothing more than insolence. It 
needs a braver heart to meet unmoved contemptuous looks or 
opprobrious words, than it would to go to the fire or sword — 
simply because in the one we seem to stand alone, and all 
men are with us at the other 


268 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XLI. 


“ Who is it from ?” asked Augusta, as Lyle opened a letter, 
and read it through in silence, the changes of his face giving 
evidence that the information contained in the paper disturbed 
him. 

“ I cannot understand it,” answered he. “ This is a com- 
plete puzzle.” 

“ What is it ? who is it from ?” inquired Augusta again. 

“ It is a lawyer’s letter, Augusta ; but I am not acquainted 
with the solicitor’s name,” 

Augusta looked alarmed, as all kinds of thoughts flitted 
through her mind at the mention of a lawyer’s letter, and 
Henry Lyle resumed : 

“ It is a notice of arrest, or whatever it is called,” — Lyle 

knew no more of law than did Augusta, — “ for Dr. ’s 

bill.” 

“ Dr. ’s bill !” echoed Augusta. 


Henry Lyle. 


269 


That it is which confuses me. Why should Dr. take 

legal measures without first trying other means ? It appears 
very unfriendly. But Gussy, who do we know of the name 
of Yere ? There is a Yere mentioned as claimant of the debt.” 

“None but Arthur Yere,” answered Augusta, turning pale. 

“He could not have anything to do with this, surely,” said 

Lyle. “ Dr. seems to have made over his debt into the 

hands of some one of the name ; and yet Yere is not a common 
name.” 

Augusta looked bewildered at her husband. 

“ What is the matter, dear ?” asked he. 

“ I am afraid, Henry, that it is Arthur Yere.” 

“ Why, Gussy, what should he interfere in this for ? Be- 
sides, I saw Yere but a few days since pass this house, and 
catching sight of me, he nodded, in a perfectly unembarrassed 
manner.” 

“ What shall we do, Harry ?” 

“ I do not know, yet : we must consider : there is plenty of 
time, Augusta ; plenty of time to think over it,” said Lyle, 
soothingly. 

“ Will you not speak to Dr. , and ask him why he so acted?” 

Lyle hesitated, as if conflicting feelings were at work in his 
breast ; when he spoke, it was, 

“ No, I shall not speak to him. He has, it seems to me, 
acted in a very ungenerous manner towards us, after having 
assured us he was in no hurry for payment. His conduct has 
been quite uncalled for. I shall not have anything more to do 
with him. 


270 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Supposing we cannot think of any means of paying him 
before the time is up !” said Augusta, with alarm. 

“Well, Gussy, dear, don’t look so frightened. Many a 
better man than I, doubtless, has been in the Bench before 
now. It cannot be avoided. I did not make myself ill pur- 
posely, and I will use every means to extricate myself, if I 
can. If I cannot ” 

“ How wicked of Dr. !” said Augusta, indignantly. 

“ I do not understand the business at all, I confess. I sup- 
pose it will be cleared before long. It seems very odd. The 

writ is served in another name. Dr. ’s name does not 

appear, excepting as having been my creditor. Perhaps he is 
not so any longer. I begin to regret that I do not know a 
little more of law matters than I do.” 

“ Oh, I am sure that is no matter of regret,” said Augusta ; 
“ such knowledge could not do you any good.” 

“Are you so prejudiced against law then?” Isaid Lyle 
laughing; “at any rate, it could not do me any harm at 
present, to be rather less ignorant than I am. All knowledge 
is valuable, excepting the knowledge of evil. I am afraid you 
are inclined to class law under the latter head, Gussy.” 

“ Yes, I am,” answered she. 

Jt Depend upon it,” said Lyle, “ that we never yet neglected 
any acquisition of knowledge, but before long we had cause to 
regret the neglect ; and we never take advantage of an oppor- 
tunity of acquiring any information, however unlikely at the 
time it may appear ever to come into use, without afterwards 
having to congratulate ourselves in having learnt it.” 


Henry Lyle. 


£71 


“ I wish you would send for Dr. urged Augusta. 

“ No, no ; wait a little. Perhaps Dr. may be here in 

a few days. It is singular that he has not been for some 
time past.” 

Everything assumes an air of suspicion when once the 
feeling has been induced. At any other time Henry Lyle 
would not have noticed anything in the doctor’s conduct. 

Several days more passed, and Dr. did not come, and 

Augusta became alarmed, as plan after plan, having been 
discussed, fell to the ground, as not feasible for relieving 
Henry Lyle from his impending difficulty. 


272 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XLII. 


“ A gentleman in the drawing-room, ma’am, would wish 
to see you ; he did not give any name.” 

Augusta passed the servant-girl on the stairs, who delivered 
her this message ; and opening the door of the dining-room, to 
her astonishment Mr. Yere stood before her. 

“ You requested to speak to me,” said Augusta, with a tone 
of formality insensibly influencing her voice. 

“ I have not seen you alone for a long time, Augusta ,” said 
Yere. 

“ Not since my marriage, I believe,” she answered ; and not 
wishing to enter into any conversation touching times past, 
Augusta added, to recall him to the object of his visit, “ Is it 
business of any kind Mr. Yere, which made you ask to see 
me ? Do not detain me longer than you can help, as you know 
I have pressing duties upon me now. You must excuse,” she 
continued, as she saw hi3 countenance change, “ the plainness 


Henry Lyle. 


273 


or rudeness of my speech. You have done away with all 
formality of politeness between us. Will you oblige me by 
stating at once what you would say for he remained still 
silent, as if undecided. . 

“ I can scarcely believe,” said Yere, “ that I listen to the 
same person as the gentle and kind-hearted girl whom I knew, 
not long since, as Augusta Leigh.” 

“ Am I ungentle,” asked she, “ or unkind in manners now 
that you express surprise at me ?” 

“No,” answered Yere ; “ and you are more engaging in the 
character of a determined woman than in any other.” 

“ Mr. Yere/’ said Augusta, “ may I ask you again, what is 
your errand here ? I have no time to remain with you idly. 
Will you tell me why you came and asked for me ?” 

“ He is very ill, then ?” said Yere, inquiringly. 

“ He has been very ill,” Augusta answered. 

“ And you are pecuniarily embarrassed ?” 

She started, and coloured at his words. 

“ Never mind, Augusta * how I knew it : I do know it. 
You are unable to pay Dr. ’s bill.” 

“ Dr. has acted very kindly towards us hitherto,” said 

Augusta, trying to subdue the tears which annoyance at Yere’s 
impertinence was bringing to her eyes. “ He had agreed to 
wait until Henry can work again, which he will do, I trust, 

before long. It rests between Dr. and my husband alone, 

and does not in any way interest you, that I can see. Why 
have you interfered ?” 

“ Excuse me, Augusta,” answered Yere ; “it rests between 
12 * 


274 


Henry Lyle. 


your husband and me, rather. I will explain to you in what 
manner.” 

He took from his breast-pocket the paper which he had 
received from Dr. 7 . 

“ You did not take into consideration the fact that Dr. 

is a poor man. I have paid the debt contracted by your hus 
hand, and I am now his creditor in the place of the doctor.” 

Augusta flushed indignantly. 

“ And what right had you to take such an office on 

yourself?” she asked. “How ” hut she stopped, and a 

dim sense of the certainty of the evils which Yere’s act might 
be bringing upon Lyle swept across her mind. She leant her 
head upon her hands, and hurst into tears. 

Vere looked at her for some moments, as she tried to check 
her sobs, which even his presence could not enable her to 
succeed in doing ; but his countenance did not change. 

By a violent effort at self-control Augusta at length ceased 
crying, and addressed him : 

“ I am ill and nervous, and at present easily upset, or you 
should not have seen me give way to tears. I wish to know 
what power that paper gives you over my husband ?” 

“The same power which Dr. would have possessed, 

had he kept the debt in his possession,” answered Yere, coldly ; 

“ the power to prosecute your husband for the payment of it.” 

“ And how,” asked she, “ does that acknowledgment come 
into your hands ?” 

“ I have, I think, already told you that Dr. ’s bill ii 

paid,” Yere answered. 


Henry Lyle. 


275 


“ Dr. could not have known what sort of man you 

are,” said Augusta, excitedly. 

Yere answered, “ Probably not.” 

“ You intend to use that power !” 

“ Most assuredly.” 

Augusta turned her head away from him that he should not 
see her face, for the emotion which his words caused was strug. 
gling to make itself seen. 

Yere continued, speaking slowly and distinctly, “ You are 
unable to meet the debt, I know. Your husband’s health will 
not admit of his working for some months to come. There is 
but one alternative ; and what do you anticipate will be the 
effect of a prison upon him in his present state ? Imagine to 
yourself the excitement, the anxiety, the mental agony ” 

“ Stop, stop !” exclaimed Augusta. “ Be silent ! You tort- 
ure me. It would kill him, it would kill him ! Mr. Yere, 
think for a moment.’’ 

“ Ah !” said Yere, regarding her fixedly, “ has not the time 
come of which I spoke ? Do not you now regret having linked 
yourself with that man ? Think of yourself as the wife of a 
poverty-stricken man, a man dying of destitution, in the 
Bench, without a hand to help him !” 

“ Oh, you wretched man !” said Augusta. 

“ The time has come, Augusta ; you do regret it.” 

“ No ; not for a moment,” answered she. 

“You do regret-; you will regret, when you find your- 
self unable to help yourself or him. You are in my 
power.” 


276 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Do you think I would change my position as Lyle’s 
wife ?” she asked. 

“ Would you not change it now, when the fact of your being 
his wife has brought all this upon him ?” Yere asked. 

Augusta would have shrieked as the horrid words of Yere 
showed her the true meaning of all his previous questions ; but 
at the same instant she recollected that Henry Lyle was in the 
room above, and that such an ebullition of feeling on her part 
would bring him to the room where she was. She writhed in 
agony of heart, and the tears came burning hot from her eyes. 

“ Did I not tell you, that you should curse the day on which 
you linked yourself to him?” asked Yere. “ Did I not swear 
to you, in the hour when you refused to listen to me, that my 
revenge should surely work itself out, through you, upon 
him?” 

“ Through him upon me, you would say, rather. Mr. 
Yere,” said Augusta, with a sudden impulse, looking him full 
in the face, “ think for a moment. Spare him ! he never 
injured you.” The sentences were said with difficulty, shortly, 
and at intervals. 

“ You refused me !” answered he. 

“ At a time when I loved and was bound to Henry Lyle.” 

“ You had neither the will nor the inclination that it should 
be otherwise, I know,” Yere answered. “ But I remember 
facts only, and my hatred towards him. I have told you 
before this, that I am a determined man.” 

“ And yet you profess to have loved me ?” asked Augusta, 
thinking to work upon the softer feelings of his nature. 


Henry Lyle. 


277 


“ I did love you, Augusta : you know it,” he answered, hut 
so coldly, that had he any kinder sentiment in the remem- 
brance of his affection, he did not let it he seen. 

“ It will kill him,” repeated Augusta, vacantly. “ Mr. 
Yere have mercy on him ! have mercy on me!” 

He smiled slightly, hut she saw the movement of his features 
however slight, and her face flushed with indignation. 

“ I was mad to think for a moment of appealing to your 
sympathy. I retract the words I used.” 

“ As you will,” he answered. 

“Oh, my Lyle !” groaned Augusta, unable to repress the 
misery of her thoughts from finding vent in words ; hut 
remembering that Yere was still present, she continued : 

“Do not flatter yourself that you will work your own evil 
will, even now. I feel confident that assistance will he given 
US' ; and at this hour, with a full perception of your had influ- 
ence before my mind, I would not change positions with you 
for a kingdom, triumphant as you suppose yourself to he. Mr. 
Yere, you have earned revenge— that which you sought for — 
and you have crushed me to the earth with sorrow, not with 
regret ; hut I do not envy you the fe.eling with which at this 
moment you must contemplate your own work. Which will 
he the happier of the two ? You, the triumphant one, or Henry 
Lyle, whom you think to have made miserable ? You are the 
most unhappy man in existence, Mr. Yere, although your 
haughty spirit would not acknowledge it — unhappy as must 
have been the evil angels when they had succeeded in their 
wicked plans.” 


278 


Henry Lyle. 


“ You are as complimentary as ever, Augusta,” said Vere, 
‘ but, as you know, I have my own ideas of happiness.” 
Still he stood as if he had no intention of going. 

“ Will you have the kindness to leave me?” said Augusta. 

At that moment she heard the door of the room above open, 
and her husband’s step descending the stairs. 

“ Go, Mr. Yere, I entreat you !” exclaimed she, almost fran- 
tically. “ He must not see you. Go ! it is the only thing I 
ask of you.” And in her terror lest Lyle should enter before 
Mr. Yere had left, she pushed the latter towards the door, and 
repeated over and over again, “ Go, I entreat you.” 

But Yere had no intention of going. He watched her 
excitement calmly, and remained unmoved until the door 
opened from without and Henry Lyle entered. 

“ Augusta,” said he, upon seeing the back of Yere, “ I did 
not know that you had a visitor. I have been wondering 
what detained you so long. Why did not you tell me ?” 

Augusta’s lips parted as if she were going to speak, but she 
was unable to articulate a syllable ; and Lyle looked in surprise 
from her, as she sank upon the sofa and turned pale, to the 
other occupant of the room, who now confronted him, and 
showed the features of Arthur Yere. 


Henry Lyle 


279 


CHAPTER XLIII 


The last time Lyle and Yere had met it had been, at least 
outwardly, in a friendly manner, and upon the latter turning 
his face towards him, Henry Lyle held out his hand, although 
testifying in his face the astonishment he felt at finding Mr. 
Yere alone with his wife, and unable to account for the agita- 
tion of Augusta’s manner. 

But Mr. Yere in no degree reciprocated any such cordial 
feeling, and he addressed Lyle without taking the hand offered 
him. 

“ I am come upon no friendly mission, Mr. Lyle, as I may 
as well explain to you in a few words.” 

“No, no,” exclaimed Augusta, looking imploringly towards 
Yere ; “ I will tell him all, I will explain all. Mr. Yere, I 
again entreat of you to leave us.” 

Henry Lyle glanced confusedly towards Augusta, and then 
indignantly at Yere, and his face flushed angrily. 

“ Mr. Yere, I will thank vou to explain to me at once your 


26C 


Henry Lyle. 


errand here ;” — and, turning to Augusta, his voice changed to 
a sad, grave tone — “ and let us have no interruption ; you will 
oblige me by being silent.” 

It was the first time Henry Lyle had ever spoken so 
reproachfully to her, and the words struck upon Augusta’s 
heart more painfully than anything which Yere had said that 
day ; the tears which had only come at intervals, and which 
she had forced back as they came, now rained from her eyes 
like a shower, as she leaned her head upon the cushion of the 
sofa. For a more painful feeling than any bodily ache or 
pecuniary difficulty had shot through the noble heart of Lyle 
as he saw the glance directed by Augusta towards Yere, and 
equal with the strength of his love was the agony of the 
momentary thought — momentary only. Jealousy is an unwor- 
thy feeling, for it is the parent of suspicion and distrust, and 
the soul of Henry Lyle was too upright and too generous to 
give food upon which it could be nourished. The grave look 
of his face changed to sadness, and, unheeding the presence of 
Yere, he went to Augusta, and raising her head from the 
pillow, he kissed her, saying, 

“ I was wrong, my darling ; I ask your forgiveness.” 

“And now, Mr. Yere?” said Lyle, turning towards the 
visitor, who had been waiting to speak. 

Yere in a few words explained the position in which he had 
placed Lyle, and the claims which he made upon him, to the 
natural surprise of Henry, who demanded, when he had come 
to an end of his speech, as Augusta had before, what possible 
interest Yere could have in his debts. 


Henry Lyle. 


281 


“ Ask Augusta,” answered Yere ; “she can explain, I dare 
say, more feelingly than I, the interest I have in your ruin.” 

“ My ruin ?” echoed Lyle ; “ a man does not wish the ruin 
of another unless he has sustained injury at his hands. What 
motive have I ever given you for revenge ?” 

“ Ask Augusta,” repeated Yere ; “ she can tell you some of 
the reasons for my conduct, although not all. I shall not 
enter into explanations ; it is enough that I hate you, Henry 
Lyle, and always have from the first hour I saw you — is it 
not?” 

“ Quite enough, I suppose, for you,” answered Lyle ; “ and 
hatred, like other evil feelings, cannot always he accounted 
for. I am sorry for you, Mr. Yere. I wish you good morning.” 

“ Augusta,” commenced Yere But Lyle interrupted 

him : 

“ Sir, I wil. be obliged to you to address my wife otherwise 
than by her Christian name.” 

Yere knit his brow, and turning from Lyle, repeated 
“ Augusta,” in a calm tone of insolence. 

“ Oh ! Henry, dear Henry !” exclaimed Augusta, as she 
observed her husband about to answer; but recollecting 
herself, she stopped suddenly. 

Henry Lyle looked at her, and smiled sadly. 

“ I entreat you let him alone,” resumed Augusta, “ he is an 
infamous bad man — let him go — do not mind his words. Mr. 
Yere, must I tell you again to go ? Will you not attend to 
my wishes ?”• 

The expression of Yere’s face underwent a change, but he 


282 


Henry Lyle. 


did not speak. Again Lyle’s face flushed with anger, and he 
took a step towards Yere. It was with a violent effort that 
Lyle had refrained from speaking ; his head felt dizzy, his heart 
turned sick ; for the excitement, the anxiety, and pain com- 
bined, had again ruptuied the blood-vessel, which was but 
partially healed. Augusta saw him turn very pale. 

“Mr. Yere,” said Lyle, turning towards the intruder, “I am 
very ill at present — you will oblige me by leaving me : I 
cannot speak to you now.” 

And at length Yere left them, or disappeared in some way, 
for Augusta became entirely engrossed with her husband, who 
was again covered with blood, and did not care to look 
whether the unwelcome visitor was there or not. 


Henry Lyle, 


283 


CHAPTER XLIY. 


Had Lyle been consulted, he would probably, at that junct- 
ure, have required the services of another physician than his 
old friend, Dr. — ; but Augusta’s anxiety saw no time for 
delay, or thought of nothing but the one fact, that medical 
assistance was required, and in obedience to the order, “ Go 
immediately for the doctor” — the servant girl of course went 
to the accustomed house, and almost as soon as the girl 
returned, the kind old man was himself by Henry Lyle’s side, 
asking no questions, but administering over again the styptics 
which Augusta knew too well. 

When the first visit was over, it was necessary to inform 

Dr. of the cause of Lyle’s renewed illness ; in fact, 

Augusta had told him all almost unthinkingly before she had 
considered the advisability or otherwise of so doing. 

He kindly took her hand, and expressed sympathy with her 
anxiety, adding, 


284 


Henry Lyle. 


“ That Mr. Yere seems a desperate villain.’ * 

Augusta looked the doctor in the face, but she did not 
express the question which rose in her mind. He seemed to 
guess it, for he asked, 

“ You do not think that I was in any way aware of Mr. 
Yere’s intention, dear Mrs. Lyle ?” 

“ I do not understand it at all,” answered Augusta ; I 
could not imagine why you should. No,” continued she, 
frankly, “I do not now think that you knew anything about 
it — you are too kind ; but, indeed, I have not been able to 
think at all fairly.” 

The doctor murmured something between his teeth which 
was not complimentary to Mr. Arthur Yere ; and turning 
again to Augusta, he said, 

“ The fact is, I have been acting like an old fool, and have 
been taken in. I hope that Lyle does not think that I had 
anything to do with this.” 

“ He shall not any longer if he does so now,” said Augusta. 
And to change the subject, which he perceived was a painful 

one, Dr. commenced speaking of Henry. He tried to talk 

off the seriousness of this fresh attack, but there was, in doing 
so, a nervous restlessness in his eyes, and a compression of the 
lips as he listened to Augusta, which belied his professionally 
assumed vivacity. 

Augusta touched as lightly as she could upon her own 
acquaintance with Mr. Yere, in explanation of his conduct, 
but the old doctor’s face reddened angrily as he heard it. 

“Never you mind; set your heart at rest, my dear,” said 


Henry Lyle. 


285 


he ; “ the scoundrel shall not have his own way ; I will see 
to that.” 

Augusta was about to speak, hut he forestalled her, guessing 
her intention : 

“ It will not inconvenience me, don’t think it ; I can easily 
repay him the hill he fraudulently obtained of me. I know 
where to lay my hand upon it,” continued he, patting her 
head, and speaking very fast, for he knew he was telling false- 
hoods, and would have some trouble in procuring the money 
readily, and being not accustomed to that sort of thing, he felt 
nervous and uncomfortable. 

Dr. was anxious also to get away, in order to think 

over a plan of carrying out his intentions ; yet he could not 
resist calling upon Mr. Vere even before doing so ; for he felt 
indignant against that individual, and was foolishly in a hurry 

to express it. Dr. was a little, short, stout man ; his 

face was rather red ; his eyes were small, but prominent ; he 
wore spectacles, had a large nose, and rather a large stomach ; 
his dress was old-fashioned and careless, and his manner hur- 
ried and impatient. His was not a dignified figure, nor was 
his voice commanding. 

As Vere rose from his seat, and, advancing a step or two, 
bowed towards the visitor, every casual observer would have 
let his sympathies go over to the side of the splendid, princely- 
looking man who stood in contrast with the little doctor, with 
his youth, his beauty, his intellectual countenance, more pale 
than usual, perhaps, from too late hours — the interested spec- 
tator might have argued from study and mental exertion. 


286 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Sir,” said Dr. , speaking very fast and agitatedly, “ I 

have called to let you know that I am aware of your infamous 
behaviour.” 

“ Sir,” answered Mr. Yere, “I am obliged to you for the 
courtesy of your visit.” 

Yere’s voice was never an engaging one, for it was unfeeling 
and uncordial, but he smiled at the conclusion of his speech. 

With whom would still have been the sympathy of the 
spectator ? 

And yet the little doctor had called in the purest virtue of 
indignation at the fraud practiced upon himself and the injury 
done his friends, with no feeling in his bosom but an honest 
desire for the punishment of wickedness and vice, and the 
maintenance of true religion and virtue. He was the good 
spirit of the piece, and Yere- the evil angel. What a pity that 
their relative positions could not have been better typified, by 
their exteriors, as they would have been were life a pantomime. 
Is it a pity ? Are we then such children yet, that it is neces- 
sary to clothe the Truth and the Right in beautiful garments 
to make them attractive to us ? No ; we are not such 
children. The doctor saw the contemptuous smile which sat 
on the face of Yere as he answered, and he wondered in 
himself how, the last time that man had held an interview 
with him, and had been so engagingly concerned, and so treach- 
erously had professed friendship towards Henry Lyle — how 

he, Dr. , could have admired him so much for his beauty 

and his insinuating address. Arthur Yere did not seem the 


same man. 


Henry Lyle. 


287 


“ Henry Lyle is seriously ill,” resumed the doctor, “ and 
made so by your impertinent interference in his affairs. Mr. 
Yere, I shall beg to be allowed to pay back to you the bill 
which was transferred into your hands, the acknowledgment 
of which I had imagined you destroyed ; for I conceived I had 
a gentleman to deal with, and not a scoundrel.” 

Yere surveyed the doctor attentively for a moment. Perhaps 
he was reflecting what ought to be his course, following upon 
the concluding, words of his companion’s address. No alarm- 
ing results, however, took place. He simply answered with 
a bow. 

“lama plain-spoken man, and not given to mincing my 
words,” resumed the other. And Yere replied parenthetically : 

“ You are quite right, sir ; I admire your candour.” 

“I shall hope to call upon you again to-morrow,” said 
Dr. . 

“To-morrow,” answered Yere. “I believe I shall be out 
of town to-morrow ; you can call upon my solicitor if you have 
anything to say.” 

“ I shall hope to enable Lyle to repay you the sum you now 
claim of him.” 

“ Mr. Lyle ought to be very much obliged to you for your 
friendship,” answered Yere. 

Dr. regarded his companion for a few moments in 

silence, as if he would have wished to speak ; yet Yere still 
remained with unmoved countenance, and the honest doctor 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Are you aware, sir,” at length he asked, “ that you have 


288 


Henry Lyle. 


done a most rascally thing ? You appear to look upon your 
conduct in a very tame light.” 

“ I am perfectly aware of what I have done,” said Yere, 
and I have partly gained my object. 

“ And the contempt of all who hear of your actions.” 

“ Indeed !” said Yere. 

“ Upon my word !” exclaimed the doctor, unable to restrain 
his surprise, “ you are the most cool villain I ever met with : 
you are a model for a villain.” 

“ You are complimentary,” said Yere, giving a short laugh, 
as he saw the doctor’s face redden with anger and disgust ; 
“ allow me to ring the bell, that my servant may show you 
the door. I wish you good morning. To-morrow, I believe 
you said, you expect to meet my demand. I am indebted to 
you for your visit.” 

Dr. said no further ; he was speechless with surprise 

and indignation. His face became more red than nature made 
it ; his eyes flashed vividly, and he retained scarcely sufficient 
self-possession to bow and leave the room. 

His exterior was no more prepossessing than it had been on 
his entrance, and Yere still stood, calm and handsome, if such 
beauty is handsome, as at the first. With which of the two 
men are your sympathies really, reader ? What, though the 
one is ugly and awkward, and the other graceful and attract- 
ive, we are not yet, we trust, entirely such children as somo 
men think. 

Arthur Yere was annoyed. He had not anticipated the 
course taken by the doctor. He was not aware that the latter 


Henry Lyle. 


269 


could readily raise the money to repay him Henry Lyle’s debt ; 
and his plan had, therefore, hut partially succeeded. 

Yet the words of the doctor recurred to his mind, “ Henry 
Lyle is seriously ill.” Can it be possible that man should find 
a pleasure in such cruel intelligence ? The thought did not 
evidently induce any other feeling in the breast of Arthur 
Yere. 

He had been, as we have said, superlatively self-collected 
during his late interview, but as he sat down by the table, 
and, taking a pen into his hand, prepared to write, the pale- 
ness of his face grew unnaturally white, and he passed his 
pocket-handkerchief over his forehead to wipe away the per- 
spiration. Yet the day was by no means warm. Then, 
rising, he took from the mantleshelf a phial, and, pouring out 
the contents, drank it : for much of Arthur Yere’s strength 
and energy in public was now artificial and borrowed. 


15 




Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


Dr. was more successful than even he had anticipated , 

but the success was late. There were hut two days interven- 
ing before the writ would be out. Henry Lyle would not take 
advantage of any shuffling means to elude the consequences of 
his debt, and waited in full expectation of an arrest. 

He spoke carelessly of the fact to Augusta, as if it were a 
matter of almost indifference to him what issue came, for he 
saw her look pale and frightened at every knock and ring ; but 
it was truly no matter of indifference to him : his very soul re- 
volted against the disgrace, though he thought little of the 
inconvenience. His independent spirit had been based upon 
his unsullied honour, and what, though he was blameless in 
the approaching trial, yet he was ranked amongst dishonoured 
and dishonourable men. 

He feared his own heart, as the colour mounted to his face, 
at the thought of what would before long take place. Had 
his independence, then, which he had considered self-respect, 


Henry Lyle. 


291 


been but a disguise of pride ? He yet retained his self-respect, 
for he had done no wrong, and should outward circumstance, 
and the opinions of others, cause him to blush when there was 
no real occasion of shame ? Yet the feeling was overpowering, 
although beyond his explanation ; like Augusta’s unaccountable 
aversion to shaking hands with an infidel, which she only 
knew, and could give no definite or satisfactory reason for. 

Henry Lyle waited for Augusta to give him some explana- 
tion of the strangeness of Mr. Yere’s conduct on the late occa- 
sion towards herself ; yet he asked her no questions about it, 
and it was not until thq excitement caused by Yere’s visit was 
over, and Henry Lyle was able to listen calmly to her conver- 
sation, that she told him all the circumstances of her acquaint- 
ance with Arthur Yere, his threats against them both, and his 
determined seeking for revenge. 

“ I can scarcely understand such a feeling,” said Lyle, 
" when Mr. Yere professes to have loved you ; but never fear, 
Gussy, his plans will not succeed ; he may think that they 
will — for a time, perhaps, he may seem to have his will — but 
it is not his hand which works in our affairs : we should be in- 
fidels did we think so.” 

Augusta looked quickly at Lyle, thinking he must be aware 
of what she knew of Yere’s infidelity by the allusion ; but his 
face showed that he was not. 

“ You must not talk on this or any subject, dear Henry,” 
said she, remembering the doctor’s injunctions. And Henry 
Lyle lay back in his chair, and his thoughts roamed back over 
years of the past. 


292 


Henry Lyle. 


He remembered a playground at a public school, and a 
crowd of boys of all ages and sizes occupied in their various 
pursuits. They were divided into two parties, and a taller, 
older boy headed each of the bands. A little fellow ran in the 
way between the two groups just as they were about to com- 
mence playing. 

“ Stand out of the way, you young fool !” exclaimed the 
voice of the leader of the opposite band to the one to which 
the intruder belonged — “ stand out of the way, will you ?” 

The child — he was a mere child — stood still in alarm at 
the sharpness of the voice addressed to him, previous to moving 
as he was told, and the next instant he was saluted by a blow 
from the speaker. 

“ For shame, Yere !” said the other leader, stepping forward 
indignantly, his fair face flushing with anger at the injury. 
“ Hit one of your own size if you dare, not a child like that.” 

Several others belonging to either party also called out 
“ Shame !” and the little boy commenced crying, and looked 
in a frightened way from one to the other. 

The boy addressed as Yere came forward to the front : 
“If I dare /” said he, tauntingly; “you shall soon see if I 
dare.” And he threw off his jacket, preparatory to inviting 
his opponent to a trial of strength. 

“ I am not going to fight,” said the other, coolly ; “ there is 
no occasion for that.” 

“ Ain’t you, indeed ?” returned Yere. “ You’re a pretty fel- 
low to talk of daring ! If you don’t fight at once, I’ll strike 
you as I did Charley. Come, Lyle, are you afraid of fighting ? 


Henry Lyle. 


293 


I thought you were so very brave just now. Self-made cham- 
pions should be prepared to take the consequences of their 
chivalric interference.” 

Henry Lyle made no furthur answer, but throwing off his 
jacket also, he went at once into the fight. They were both 
boys, and without much consideration, certainly without the 
cool argument and reflection of men. 

The mill did not take long : after a few moments of mixed 
sparring and struggling, not quite scientific but very effectual, 
enlivened by cries of “Go it, Harry!” “That’s right, Arthur — 
give it him !” equally divided amongst the admiring boys, who 
urged on either or both in turn, Yere was thrown, and Lyle 
stood over him, rather breathless, but very triumphant. 

It was but for a moment, though : Henry Lyle stooped towards 
his adversary, and said, 

“ I hope you are not hurt, Yere ; I am sorry, now, I fought 
you. I beg your pardon. But you oughtn’t to have hit that 
little fellow.” 

He pulled his late opponent up from the ground, and when 
Yere stood on his feet, Lyle said, holding out his hand, 

“ Come, be friends again, there’s a good fellow ; I don’t 
want to quarrel with you. It is a mere chance that you 
didn’t lick me.” 

Still Arthur Yere looked gloomily. He took Lyle’s hand, 
held towards him, but he did not return the cordial shake in a 
like spirit. 

Then there was a day for giving prizes, and all the same 
boys assembled in the great schoolroom, in enforced silence, 


204 


Henry Lyle. 


broken only by whispers and murmurs occasionally, and the 
hum of expectation. 

“Vere, of course, both of them,” was heard above the 
whispers. And Vere also heard it, and showed by his coun- 
tenance that no doubt of the truth of his companions’ guesses 
crossed his mind. 

“ For drawing, Lyle : there can be no question.” And it 
seemed to be universally agreed that Vere and Lyle were to 
carry the prizes of the year. 

The doctor, whose presence brought with it a salutary awe 
and decorum, now commenced the business of the meeting, and 
after some preliminary words, the prizes were given. 

“For composition, to Arthur Vere.” And Lyle well remember- 
ed how Vere’s mother, then still a beautiful woman, turned with 
eyes of fond delight towards the boy of whom she was so proud. 

“For classics” (it had been agreed amongst all the boys 
that Vere would have it, although they had not had much 
reason for the decision), “ to Henry Lyle.” 

Lyle had also decided that it was to be Vere’s, although he 
had himself been striving for it, and his pleasure was very 
mixed with surprise, and with regret at Vere’s supposed disap- 
pointment. Arthur Vere’s lip curled haughtily, and he looked 
with contempt at a band of his young admirers, whose faces 
showed sympathy with his failure. 

“ For drawing, Henry Lyle. Lyle you seem to be taking 
everything this year.” 

“ But that of course,” murmured all assembled : there never 
had been any doubt as to the prize for drawing. 


Henry Lyle. 


295 


“ Young gentlemen,” said the master — and a dead silence 
followed the address, for all guessed what was coming — “ I 
have now to adjudge a prize — the most important prize of the 
year— one for which I trust you have all been striving— and I am 
aware that in giving it to the one whom you must all acknowl- 
edge best deserves it, I must cause regret to many of you. I 
place him, in receiving this book, at the head of all of you, 
more than his classical attainments or progress in his studies 
could ever advance him. We cannot all he first, hoys, and I 
am sure I have your cordial approbation and concurrence when 
I deliver the prize for ‘good and gentlemanly conduct ’ into the 
hands of Henry Lyle.” 

The hoys shouted, as they would perchance have shouted 
had any other name followed the doctor’s speech ; hut they 
estimated that it was in approval of their master’s decision, 
and in heartfelt sympathy with Henry Lyle. 

It was in sympathy with the ascendant star, who had stood 
in blank amazement at hearing his own name attached to the 
complimentary speech of the doctor, and who now went 
forward towards the desk of authority to receive the splendidly- 
bound books which the master held in his hands. 

The sweet voice of Henry Lyle was heard in answer to the 
kind words which the doctor addressed to him congratulatory 
of his success, thanking him for his kindness, and adding, with 
unaffected simplicity, 

“ I wish, sir, that I could feel I had better deserved such a prize.” 

The stiff, cold manner of Arthur Yere towards him thence- 
forth, until they both left school ; the cutting, sarcastic things 


296 


Henry Lyle. 


said by him ; the stumbling-blocks placed in Lyle’s way ; the 
attempts to provoke him by insults to break through his reso- 
lution and promise never to fight again — for the master had 
heard of and inquired into the fracas which had, amongst his 
schoolfellows, gained glory to Lyle, and had seriously spoken 
to both the boys upon the subject — all these incidents, which 
had been buried for years, now Henry Lyle remembered. 

And then he had lost sight of Arthur Yere., and only heard 
of him at intervals through others ; how he had distinguished 
himself at the university — where Lyle had so longed to go, 
and where he could have taken honours as easily as Yere had 
done — yet that he had made himself remarkable by the loose- 
ness of his principles as much as by the brilliancy of his 
intellect ; how he had published, and successfully, and had 
been acknowledged publicly as a man of talent and power. 

Lyle had expected to hear of his stepping forward in some 
noble cause, and distinguishing himself ; but Yere seemed con- 
tent with existing in the enjoyment of his own master-mind, 
and careless of the advance of others. 

Then they had met, when years of separation had made 
them almost strangers, and Lyle was astonished that the early 
promise of manly beauty which Arthur Yere, as a boy, had 
given, had been so gloriously fulfilled, and, as a painter, he 
looked with admiration at the appearance of his former school- 
fellow ; yet he was distressed at the want of that in Arthur 
Yere which, as a poet in feeling, he looked for. 

And Henry Lyle could now remember that there had been 
still in Yere’s manner towards himself the old coldness and 
distance which had arisen in boyhood. 


Henry Lyle. 


297 


CHAPTER XL VI. 


Dr. was more successful than he had contemplated, 

but Augusta endured all the horrors of evil anticipation. At 
the last hour, almost, arrived the doctor, red hot, foaming and 
energetic : the paper was regained from Vere’s solicitor, and 
Augusta could scarcely believe for a time that all alarm was 
at an end, and that things were to go on peacefully as before. 

Arthur Vere was disgusted at the partial failure of his inten- 
tion. He did not care that those to whose ears came the facts 
looked strangely at him and thought him a scoundrel ; he had 
his own ever-ready admirers and flatterers. He imagined 
himself above public opinion, he, who lived upon public 
applause. 

He went abroad. It was in vain that Mrs. Vere on several 

occasions put in a plea that he would remain a little longer in 

England, or allow her to accompany him. An internal voice 

seemed to urge her now more than ever to cling to him. He 

13 * 


298 


Henry Lyle. 


went : and she wept bitterly, as she had often done at parting 
with him, but with a despairing sense of desolation which, 
until now, had been unknown to her. She had formed an 
intimacy with Mrs. Seymour, who, in the kindness of her heart, 
tried to minister comfort to poor Mrs. Yere, and spent much 
of her time with her. 

The life of Mrs. Seymour was made up of little kindnesses 
and small attentions, unobserved, perhaps, of men, because 
they did not wear the gloss with which large charities shine, 
but more necessary to the daily happiness and comfort of others 
than the greater benefits. 

It is but seldom that we have the opportunity of largely 
assisting our fellow-creatures, but all, as Henry Lyle said, may 
give kind words and encouraging smiles ; and they who fail in 
such will never be the men to greatly benefit their neighbours, 
excepting through a corrupt and sophisticated feeling. It was 
generally known that Yere was the author of the pamphlets 
we have mentioned, and many a man looked reproachfully 
upon him in consequence ; but further than giving to his 
manner an air of bravado and extra indifference, Arthur Yere 
seemed careless that the world spoke and thought ill of him. 

At this time Augusta received a letter from Philip Wilson, 
full of affection towards herself and Lyle, and kind sympathy, 
telling of his own success in speculation, and how he had now 
put out the money he had realized to good and secure interest ; 
and with all sorts of kind hopes and wishes, Philip remitted to 
Augusta no inconsiderable sum of the first fruits of his labour, 
as he called it, signing himself her affectionate brother , in case 


Henry Lyle. 


299 


she should feel any disinclination to taking the money from him. 

At this juncture Mr. Grant’s affairs were set in order, his 
will proved, and the legacies discharged ; and that which had 
been left to Henry Lyle was paid over to his account. 

“ I declare we are quite rich,” said Augusta, with anima- 
tion. “ Is it not strange that all this should come at once ? 
If it had only, some of it, arrived a few months earlier !” 

“It is always the way in this world, Gussy,” answered 
Henry. “ Perhaps to-morrow somebody else may send us 

more. But we must enclose Dr. his account now, before 

we begin to enjoy ourselves.” 

“ Enjoy ourselves !” repeated Augusta ; “ dear Henry, it is 
sufficient pleasure to me to see you capable of enjoyment.” 
And she burst into tears. “I may cry now, may I not? 
My head has felt so full for weeks past.” 

“ You silly girl ! now there is nothing to cry about,” said 
Lyle, laughing. 

“ Then I shall choose that as my part of the enjoyment for 
the next half-hour,” answered Augusta, continuing to act as 
good as her word. 

The warm spring weather was come on, and Henry Lyle 
shook off his illness once more. 

Once more in their happy little home : Lyle’s health progress- 
ing favourably to all appearance, and Augusta able to think 
without turmoil and to look forward with hope. Again Lyle 
stood at his easel ; again he talked and laughed, and Augusta 
listened as before ; again she played and sang to her guitar, 
and spoke of Philip Wilson’s return, and of all the old days 


300 


Henry Lyle. 


gone by, when first Lyle had come to her father s house and 
she had begun to live in loving him. This space of quiet 
repose seemed like a green spot in the anxious life of Augusta, 
and she resigned herself to all the luxury of enjoyment, perhaps 
in a conviction that even this was earthly, and a prescience 
that it could not last. 

“ Henry, my dearest,” said she one night, as they sat as 
usual alone together, “ does Mr. Vere, do you think, imagine 
that he has made us any the less happy by his supposed 
revenge ? How very impotent the efforts of man appear, even 
those of such a man as Mr. Vere, who boasted himself almost 
omnipotent.” 

“ The most determined man is comparatively impotent, Au- 
gusta, for in wrong he fights against God, whereas, in the 
effort to do well, the will of man is almost Godlike. Is it not 
a beautiful moral upon the face of Truth and Right ? We 
might say with justice, instead of * such a man is strong in the 
cause of Right,’ * he is leagued with the Almighty Himself,’ 
for God pervades the whole creation in the minds of His creat- 
ures, and looks out at all times in men’s good actions and good 
attempts.” 

“ Mr. Vere has gone abroad,” observed Augusta ; “ Mrs. 
Seymour told me so, and the Miss Delavilles are, I suppose, of 
course, disconsolate.” 

It seemed curious to Augusta that Henry Lyle never sus- 
pected Vere to be the author of the the tracts which he had an- 
swered, and that the knowledge of the fact never came to him : 
but by the time that Lyle was able to move about and interest 


Henry Lyle. 


301 


himself in everyday things, the excitement of the contest was 
over, Yere had been abused and forgotten, and had gone abroad, 
and nobody cared much about him. 

Moreover, Henry Lyle, at all times of a shy and secluded 
disposition, did not mix much in general society, and, since his 
illness, was unable to do so even so much as before, in conse- 
quence of the doctor’s orders being laid upon him that he 
should not expose himself to the night air. 

Augusta fondly imagined that Lyle gained strength weekly, 
but at times her fears and anxiety were revived by seeing how 
the least exertion would bring a languor and depression over 
him, which he found it difficult to disguise. 

His energetic mind would carry him through fatigue, but the 
evening would find him completely overcome with the effort, 
and at times the horrid, fearful cough would return, and 
throughout the night, make the heart of Augusta beat with 
anxiety. 

Yet it was lovely warm weather, and Lyle seemed thor- 
oughly to enjoy it. All his old friends were delighted to see 
him about again, and made all sorts of foolish and indiscreet 
remarks relative to his reduced and altered appearance. 

Meanwhile the Miss Delavilles were engrossed with Mr. 

B , and spent their time in annoying him with constant 

attentions, and striving to induce him to occupy the pedestal 
which formerly had belonged to Arthur Yere. 

The summer passed and the autumn months returned, and 
with them all the alarming symptoms in Henry Lyle. He did 
not tell Augusta how he again spit blood : he tried to smother 


302 


Henry Lyle. 


the cough when he could ; he shook off the apathy and Ian* 
guor which oppressed him ; and forced himself to talk and act 
as usual. 

One afternoon he met with his old friend Dr. , as the 

doctor was coming out of the house of a patient whom he had 
been visiting. 

’“Well,” said the old gentleman, holding out his hand, “how 
do you get on ?” And immediately afterwards, feeling the 
fever in which Lyle was, he added, “ I say, Lyle, you must he 
careful ; you should stop at home and nurse yourself, instead of 
going about in this way. I hope you have not been imprudent.” 

Lyle answered that he had not, but at the same time told 
him of what had taken place. 

“ Well, well,” said the doctor, trying to pretend it was 
nothing of consequence, “ such things will happen, but you 
must be very careful of yourself, Henry Lyle, indeed you must, 
my dear boy.” 

“ I know perfectly well what you mean,” answered Lyle. 
“ I am well aware that I am dying, and all the care in the 
w T orld would not make more than a few months’ difference in 
my life.” 

“ Pooh !” said the doctor, blinking his eyes, for he did not 
feel pooh, “ dont talk absurdity.” 

“ You know very well, sir, I am telling truth,” said Lyle. 

“ My dear Lyle, you must not expose yourself to risks, and 
all will be well.” 

“ Rest assured I shall not expose myself,” said Lyle, almost 
Badly. “ My poor Augusta !” 


Henry Lyle. 


303 


“ Yes, for Augusta’s sake, you must be careful. Come, don’t 
you be thinking you are more ill than you are. I have seen 
much worse cases than yours perfectly right again.” 

“Very well,” answered Lyle. “I am obliged to you that 
you have been too honest to mislead me. It is very much 
kinder. Do not fear I shall imagine myself worse than I am.” 

There was not much imagination requisite before long to 
show Lyle, and everybody else, that all his illness had returned. 
He was unable to leave the house as the autumn months fell 
and the winter approached. Augusta suspected all this, but 
she would not allow her mind to dwell upon it. If at any 
time the thought that such things might be occurred to her, 
she averted her mental gaze in affright and horror, and felt 
disposed to cry out that it must not and should not be, because 
she dared not contemplate the possibility. She occupied 
herself in trifles, employing her thoughts as much as she could 
, on the every-day things of life. There was no necessity now 
for manual labour ; that phase of her life was over. The sub- 
ject which must often have been present to the minds of both 
was as if by mental consent, avoided by Lyle and Augusta in 
conversation. 

Until one evening, when it was almost dark, Henry Lyle, 
after a silence during which he had been striving for strength 
of purpose and command of words, addressed Augusta 


304 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 


“ I knew once a man who was dearly loved by his wife, 
and loved her in return ; as dearly as you and I, Augusta, and 
when sickness came upon him, he found it very hard to believe 
that anything could ever break up the domestic happiness 
which he had enjoyed. He found it very hard to submit to 
the stern fact that all these present things are mutable ; for 
we learn and preach these daily sermons, Gussy, but forget to 
apply them ever. And when he was ill, for he was very ill, 
he wilfully shut his eyes to the true state of the case for as 
long as he possibly could, and persisted in cheating himself 
with hopes and expectations for the future, partly for his own 
sake, and partly for the sake of her whose happiness seemed 
so bound up in his. Was he right, Gussy ? Was he acting 
judiciously or lovingly to her in making her also close her eyes 
to his danger for so long, only that she might wake up some 
day to the facts ? Hard facts they a e, and painfal ones. Do 
you think he acted kindly to her V* 


Henry Lyle. 


305 


And the calm eyes of Henry Lyle were fixed upon the face 
of Augusta, earnestly watching the expression of hex counte- 
nance. 

“ But, Henry,” said Augusta, as if passing over his questions, 
and only anxious to hear the sequel of the story, which struck 
painfully on her heart — “ hut, Henry, he was not seriously ill, 
not dangerously ill, was he ?” 

She could not have dared give herself a reason for the 
inquiry. 

“ Yes, dear love, seriously, dangerously, mortally ill : so he 
was told at length by his physician. But he had felt it for 
some time himself, and was too great a coward to tell it to her. 
He feared that her woman’s weakness might overcome her and 
him also, and forgot that her Christian resignation and high 
principle would hear her up against even such a trial as their 
parting. He did her injustice, did he not, Gussy ?” 

Still his eyes read her countenance, and an expression of 
terror overspread her face. 

“ I do not know,” said she, wildly — “ I cannot say, Harry. 
Tell me, he did not die, this man you speak of?” 

“ What if he had, Augusta, how would she, his wife, have 
borne it, do you think?” 

“ Oh, she would have broken her heart, Henry, if she loved 
him as I love you,” exclaimed Augusta, throwing her arms 
round his neck. “ Poor thing ! she could not live without him ; 
indeed she could not.” 

“ Hush ! my dearest girl,” said Henry Lyle ; “ she would 
have acted far otherwise. She would have lived on in the 


306 


Henry Lyle. 


hope and faith of meeting him again, like a noble-hearted 
woman as she is, remembering that there is always some 
object in life, even though, for the time, she might feel deso- 
late ; that there is ever the same Heaven above her, supporting 
her through life, the same God to serve ; she would have so 
argued, so thought.” 

Augusta fixed her eyes upon Lyle’s as he spoke, as if scrutin- 
izing the expression of them. 

“ Are not these also among the sermons which we daily 
preach, Henry, and never apply to ourselves ?” 

“ They must be applied, Gussy, and before long ; we cannot 
shut our eyes any longer to them.” 

“What do you mean, Harry? Oh ! of what, of whom, are 
you speaking all this while ?” 

“ Ho you love me very much, Augusta ?” 

She understood it all now, and her arms tightened round 
his neck ; yet she strove very hard to crush her grief, for she 
knew the effect it always h^d upon him, and the words, “ Ho 
you love me very much, Augusta ?” sounded like a deprecation 
of her paining him by her violence. 

Long he talked to her soothingly, telling her of the long 
dread he had had that this must come to pass, and the com- 
fort it was to him that they were together, and that she did 
not give way ignobly under the trial. 

From that day Augusta was another woman outwardly, in 
reality a higher phase of her own character. Many times, 
when alone, after this interview with her husband, her pent-up 
feelings gave way in floods of tears, but never in his presence 


Henry Lyle. 


307 


There was little difference in her manner, excepting in 
the increased tenderness of her voice, when addressing 
Lyle. 

She grew paler day by day, and she would not have 
acknowledged to herself how much slighter her figure became 
with all this anxiety. She had always ready some excuse in 
answer to Lyle’s expressed fears for her health, and doctor 
found that it was useless to attempt putting a stop to the 
unwearying exertions which she used, or suggesting that 
Augusta’s labours should be shared by some one else. 

“ You will make yourself ill,” argued he, “ and then we 
shall be in a pretty state with you also to be nursed.” 

“ Never fear,” answered Augusta ; “ I shall not be ill so 
long as there remains the necessity for exertion. I have no 
time to think of being ill.” 

“ I believe you,” answered Dr ; “ but when the 

exertion is at an end, you will suffer for it.” 

Augusta looked at him deprecatingly, as if to entreat him to 
avoid such an allusion, and the kind old man inwardly abused 
himself for his stupidity, and attempted to talk cheerfully of 
other things. 

“Iam sure Mrs. Lyle bears up against it all remarkably 
well,” observed Miss Bella Delaville to Mrs. Seymour, when 
talking on the subject of Henry Lyle’s illness and the slight 
hope there was of his recovery. The speech was made in 
such a tone that Mrs. Seymour imagined it implied a reproach 
upon Augusta for the absence of outward ebullitions of grief 
on her part. 


308 


Henry Lyle. 




“Yes, poor dear girl,” answered she, “ she bears up bravely 
against it : she has a noble heart.’’ 

“ I am sure it is a great advantage,” remarked Miss Bella, 
still in the same tone, “ to be able to do so. Now, I should 
be perfectly unfit for such a position as Augusta Lyle’s ; I 
should be completely overcome continually, I have such very 
acute feelings.” 

“ Then I fear you would be of very little use,” said Mrs 
Seymour, bluntly ; “ but I differ from you in one respect. I 
think that feelings show themselves more in self-devotion and 
self-forgetfulness than in any outward manifestation, which is, 
at best, but a selfish indulgence of them. We should have 
but few helpers and comforters, Miss Bella, if all were of your 
temperament.” 

“ Oh yes !” said the lady, taking glory to herself, “ I often 
wish I did not feel so sensibly ; the least thing melts me. It 
is very painful to be so sensitive, but we cannot help it, Mrs. 
Seymour, if we feel more strongly than others.” 

Mrs. Seymour saw that her previous remarks had been mis- 
applied or unheeded, and she felt the uselessness of adding any- 
thing further, so was fain to leave Miss Bella Dellaville in the 
enjoyment of her own conceit. 


Henfy Lyle. 


309 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


The last resource ; Florence and a winter at Rome. Au- 
gusta’s heart sank as she heard the doctor’s advice. It seemed 
but the faint attempt of a dying man to struggle on a little 
longer. 

But Lyle viewed nothing with the same sad eyes as his 
wife : he heard the proposal with the utmost calmness, and 
merely strove to soothe the agitation which poor Augusta found 
it impossible to conceal. 

“ It must be so, my dearest ; I have expected it always ; 
yet, had I a choice, I would rather die in my own land.” 

“ Die !” Augusta covered her face with her hands, and 
leant her head upon his shoulder. 

“ I should have said, part with you here, amongst all our old 
associations. Sit down by me, Gussy, and let us calmly talk 
the subject over. It must be looked into the face bravely : we 
cannot escape it by forgetting it, dear little girl.” 


310 


Henry Lyle. 


She sat down as he directed on a stool by him, leaning her 
head against his' knee, while she gazed full into the fire before 
her, and held one of his hands within her own. 

“ I distressed you by my remark, Gussy,” said he. “ It will 
be very hard to part, but it is only for a little while.” 

She shuddered and was silent, only clasping his hand more 
tightly in hers. 

“ How false an idea men generally have of death,” rejoined 
Lyle, as if following the train of his own thoughts aloud, 
“ chiefly owing, I conceive, to the false associations which are 
given us in childhood. Every subject, in passing through the 
mind presents to the mind an ideal image, whether consciously 
or no, for it may be without our volition, or even at times 
without our observation. That image becomes for life associa- 
ted with the idea. How does death present itself?” 

Augusta shuddered again involuntarily, and Lyle put his 
arm round her as he continued : 

“ You answered me without words, Gussy. That shudder 
was the prejudice of childhood embodied in an act. Men 
speak of death as the long rest, as our last home or sleep, and 
many such terms, and flatter themeslves in the false idea of 
throwing a halo of poetical language, and, as they think, 
feeling, around the mistake. Death is no sleep, can be no 
sleep to us. I am taking only the highest picture of death usu- 
ally presented to us. There are those who have degraded their 
own thoughts to such Sadducean level as to speak as if in 
earnest of dwelling in the ‘ narrow cell,’ the ‘ cold tomb,’ and 
all such hackneyed terms, bordering upon infidelity. As 


Henry Lyle. 


311 


children, have we not seen the finger of those older and better 
informed than ourselves pointing downwards to the mortal 
grave in the churchyard, as the place to which one or 
other we have loved has gone, instead of upwards to those blue 
fields of speculation, the place we think they now inhabit, and 
telling of that paradise, wherever it may be, where we know 
they are gone ?” 

“Go on,” said Augusta, in a low tone ; “let me hear your 
dear voice while I yet may.” 

“ Are not such foolish ideas mixed with our earliest dreams ? 
Yet, I can never be in the narrow cell, the tomb cannot 
imprison me. The body is not I. If men could but realize 
their own individuality irrespective of the body, and remember 
that self must be an immortal essence, they would cease to talk 
of * looking at the sun for the last time,’ of ‘ exchanging this 
bright world for the dark confines of the tomb.’ Immortal 
man never goes to the tomb. Who knows how far the soul 
may have flitted from earth by the time the perhaps forgotten 
body has been returned to dust ? We are infidels at heart, 
Augusta, all of us : we preach * dust to dust,’ and deny it in 
practice daily. We talk a great deal of Christian doctrine, and 
perhaps many of us think of these things, but we do not think 
them.” 

“Go on,” said she, again, turning her eyes upon his face, 
and gazing there as if it had been the face of an angel, which 
in expression truly .it nearly approached to. 

“ A desperate man, before taking the fatal leap from a par- 
apet of the suicidal bridge, argues to himself of the oool rest, 


312 


Henry Lyle. 


the forgetfulness of his sorrows and his sins, which he will find 
beneath the turbid waters of the Thames. Such argument is 
but a further proof of the temporary insanity which can prompt 
to a suicidal act, but it is an insanity which is not confined to 
the poor desperate alone, but travels far into human creation. 
"Where is the coolness which can extend to the body alone, 
when that body by its very act is deprived of feeling ? Where 
the rest, when the body is no longer conscious of fatigue, and 
the soul, the self, the man, is whirled prematurely, still sen- 
tient, still suffering, still unforgetting, into another state, where 
probably feeling may be more acute, remembrance more 
intense ?” 

“ Yet David somewhere says, ‘ In death there is no remem- 
brance of Thee; in the grave, who shall give Thee thanks ?’” 

* x David also says, ‘ There is no repentance in the grave 
and another scripture has, ‘As the tree falls, so shall it lie.’ 
We are often told that our doom is fixed from the moment that 
we die, but we are not told that our souls are in the grave un- 
conscious of that doom. The spirit remains in the same frame 
as when it left earth : regret may be, but repentance is too late 
to be effectual. We know there is such repentance as that 
of Esau ; and, doubtless, the very demons so far repent, that 
they would change their destiny were it possible. Perhaps the 
soul in that transitive state may be restrained from advance in 
intellectual as well as moral culture, who can say?” 

“ But that paradise of which wc have been told, and which 
seems distinct from heaven ?” asked Augusta, as if yearning 


Henry Lyle. 


313 


for that spiritual information which is withheld, a yearning 
which pervades every immortal soul. 

“ Of that we know nothing,” answered Lyle, gently, “ hut 
that it is ; and of such things we must not inquire, lest, ere 
we are conscious of our own sin, we should profanely tread 
upon holy ground.” 

“ Go on,” still said Augusta, in the same low voice. 

“"What more should I say?” he answered. “When ws 
part ” 

It was not she who trembled this time. Augusta still 
looked in his face with the same resigned and devoted expres- 
sion, still pressed his hand in hers. 

He ceased speaking, looked agitated, then throwing his 
arms around her with almost frantic love, he wept as passion- 
ately as a child, and forgot all his arguments of resignation in 
the arrant weakness of human nature. 


14 


314 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


Lyle and Augusta went to Florence, and the complete 
change of climate, scenery, and subjects of interest, seemed to 
work wonders with the invalid. 

The doctor had recommended cessation from work, although 
he had not enforced it with great rigour ; hut Lyle seemed to 
find it impossible to obey such a behest. With, of late, unwont- 
ed vigour he returned to his pencil, revelling in the art of the 
land, working, with all his love and strength in the employ- 
ment ; and Augusta’s heart leaped in grateful heatings towards 
the God of health, as she saw, or believed she saw, the colour 
return to her husband’s cheek, and the brightness to his eye, 
the flush of excitement and the brilliancy both unnatural. 

Again they walked together, he giving to her the support 
of his arm. 

One day, in one of the galleries of Florence, as Augusta 
stood by the side of Lyle, listening to the low tones of his 


Henry Lyle. 


315 


voice, as he spoke of the associations necessarily suggested by 
the paintings around them, her eye fell upon the figure of 
Arthur Yere, standing a little apart from them, looking to- 
wards Lyle with an expression of face difficult to understand, 
and evidently overhearing the conversation. 

He did not start as he caught her eye, but bowed, and 
shortly afterwards disappeared. 

This sudden apparition disconcerted Augusta ; she had not 
been aware that Yere was in the neighbourhood. Lyle’s face 
had been turned in profile towards Yere, and therefore he was 
not aware of the encounter, and Augusta thought it best to say 
nothing of her own anxiety. 

It was not long before that anxiety was renewed. Seated 
the following day by herself, in her husband’s painting-room, 
for Lyle had, as a most unusual occurrence, gone out alone, 
the door was gently opened, and Mr. Yere entered. 

Augusta rose quickly to her feet, and her first impulse was to 
resent the impertinent intrusion on Yere’s part ; but his sudden 
appearance alarmed her, the late anxieties through which she 
had passed had to a degree undermined her presence of mind 
and firmness, and she could only look indignantly towards 
him, unable for a few moments to eommand her voice. 

Yere saw her agitation, and waited as if for her to speak. 
Augusta continued standing, and when the first feeling of 
alarm was over she addressed him. 

“ May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit ? Excuse 
my rudeness, but you must be aware that it cannot be 
agreeable to me.” 


316 


Henry Lyle. 


“ I did not expect it to be so,” answered Yere. “ I did not 
know until yesterday, when we mutually recognized each 
other, that you were in Florence. He is in ill-health still, I 
presume ?” 

There was no necessity to ask who was intended by the he, 
and Augusta did not pretend to misunderstand. 

“ We are here on account of Lyle’s health,” she answered. 

“ He is dying, I presume ?” said Yere, heartlessly. And 
Augusta would not to him allow the pang his words caused 
her to be apparent, but answered as firmly as he himself had 
spoken : 

“ I believe so.” She turned very pale as she said the 
words, but averted her face from his ; and Yere resumed : 

“ And what will become of you then, when he is gone ?” 

“God will take charge of me ; that God to whom he will 
commit me. I can work, if there is necessity.” 

“ Rather visionary reliance,” murmured Yere. 

She had been firm as she answered him his cold-blooded 
question, but it had been the firmness of a moment only. Her 
eye caught sight of the picture upon which her husband had 
been occupied, and leaning her head upon her arm against the 
window-sill her whole frame shook with grief. 

Yere approached her. “ Augusta,” said he, “ did I not tell 
you you should repent having once injured me ? Do you not 
do so at such a moment ?” 

She signed to him to go, but he did not obey her wishes. 

“Repent having refused you?” she asked, after a pause, 
unable to refrain from throwing into the tone of her voice the 


Henry Lyle. 


317 


contempt which she felt towards him. “ Do you think that at 
this moment I would change my position as Lyle’s wife, strug- 
gling with the constant inroads of poverty as we have done for 
that of the companion of an infidel ?” 

She raised her head, and looked him full in the face, and 
his eye, zs usual, fell before that of an honest fellow-creature. 

** Who told you so ?” he murmured ; but she took no notice 
of his question, and continued, 

“Do you think I would be otherwise than the death-bed 
attendant of him who seems as an angel, when placed in 
contrast to such as you ?” 

“ Thank you,” said Yere ; “ but your angel is dying as fast 
as possible : and what then ?” 

“ I would sooner have the memory of him, and the conscious- 
ness of such an angel, laugh as you will at the term, being 
still mine, above, than ” She stopped. 

“ Than such a devil on earth,” added Yere ; “ exactly. 
Well, we will not quarrel with terms ; but some day, not very 
long hence, you will think differently.” 

“ So you have prophesied before this, with as much reason 
as now. You cannot make me think differently ; and for your 
empty threats, do you think, proud man that you are, that 
Heaven will listen to the wishes of one who denies the God of 
heaven ?” 

“ You forget : I shall not ask Heaven to listen,” retorted he. 

As he spoke, Lyle entered, but Yere did not move from his 
position. Augusta went towards her husband as she continued 
speaking : 


318 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Do you think that the darkness of all our present prospects 
would make me hesitate for a moment, had I the power of 
recalling the past ? When evil comes upon us, we are sharing 
it together, and I would rather rejoice that in my life with 
him, short as has been the time given us, I have had opportu- 
nities of showing him I can be happy, not alone when the sun 
shines brightly, hut through clouds and darkness, in his love.” 

Yere smiled his usual smile when annoyed, and turned to 
Henry Lyle. 

“ You may feel surprised, sir, at finding me here ; I am 
quite ready to give you an explanation of my conduct, and 
should, indeed, feel obliged if you will accompany me into the 
street, as I would wish to speak to yourself.” 

“ I am surprised only in so far as I did not know you to be 
in Florence,” answered Lyle ; and nodding his head towards 
Augusta he left the room with Yere. Perhaps, had Augusta 
been less confident in the integrity of her Lyle, she might have 
felt alarmed at the ominous words used by Yere. She per- 
fectly well understood their significance, but not a doubt or 
fear passed through her mind as the two men, we were about 
to write the two gentlemen , left the room together. 


Henry Lyle. 


:i9 


CHAPTER L. 


“ Now, sir,” said Yere, as he and Lyle stood on the pave- 
ment outside the lodgings of the latter, “I have a charge 
against you, which, being a true one, I presume your principles 
will scarcely allow you to refute. I believe I am indebted to 
you for the public opposition and contradiction which I for 
some months sustained.” 

“ I really do not know to what you allude,” answered Lyle. 
“ Opposed to you I have always been in principle, I am 
aware ; but never personally, I believe. "Will you explain 
yourself more fully .?” 

Vere looked quickly in the face of Lyle. There was no lie 
in those clear eyes ; and perhaps he, such an adept in acting 
himself, was as good a judge of the utter absence of it in 
another, as any. In this case he saw himself misunderstood, 
and said, by way of explanation, 

“I am speaking of those pamphlets of yours, Mr. Lyle. 


320 


Henry Lyle. 


Need I tell you that the contradictions, or refutations, as I 
suppose you would call them, were directed against myself?” 

“Are you, then, the author of those papers?” asked Lyle, 
with so strange a look of interest at his companion, that even 
Yere started. 

“ I am,” said he ; “I am not ashamed to own my 
principles.” 

“Or want of principle,” said Lyle, sadly; “you were 
ashamed, and justly so, to own yourself the author at the time 
you published them.” 

“ It would not have been wise to do so : that was my only 
reason ; but why should I continue such a concealment ? I 
have no object now in doing so. I hope I have not, irremedi- 
ably shocked your propriety by my confession,” added he, 
laughing shortly. 

“ I was aware,” said Lyle, quickly, “ that your principles 
were rather unfixed ; but I scarcely can credit your being the 
author of such pamphlets. God help you, Yere !” 

“ I am obliged to you, sir, for the wish,” said the other, 
sarcastically, “ although I do not say amen to it.” 

“ You will one day say amen to it ; not long hence, I hope : 
I trust, before it is too late.” 

“ Too late for what ? I do not fear, Lyle ; I have made 
my own future.” 

“ So you think ; but I am afraid you will find the future has 
been made for you, without consulting you or your private 
opinions. Things do not fall out as we anticipate, even in 
every-day life : do they ?” 


Henry Lyle. 


321 


Vere thougnt of the future he had once planned, and of its 
being overthrown so unexpectedly, and influencing his whole 
subsequent life as it had done, and he writhed under Lyle’s 
w T ords. He glanced at his companion’s face with undisguised 
ferocity, but there was no deeper meaning there than the sense 
of the remark implied ; and he said, suppressing his voice as 
he spoke, so that the passers-by should not hear, 

“ According to the Eternity which such as you believe in. 
I live for Time, as all who think honestly must do.” 

“ It must be a wretched life, then,” said Lyle, musingly. 

“Not so miserable as you think.” said Yere, who, in the 
interest of the subject, was forgetting his angry feeling towards 
his opponent. “It is thought makes misery. "Without 
thought, life were a paradise. It is you reflective men should 
be unhappy.” 

“ How you condemn your own doctrine, Yere, in saying that 
thought makes misery. Thought of what? not your own 
philosophy, but the probable or even possible fallacy of it.” • 

“I did not intend what you say, at all,” answered Yere, 
quickly. “ You think for me.” 

“ You are not a man,” pursued Lyle, “ to find your pleasure 
in merely sensual gratification. You, if any man does, know 
the pleasures of intellect. You say thought makes misery : 
you must, then, be a miserable man.” 

“ Do you not admit the making a slave instead of a master 
of the intellect?” said Yere. 

“ I admit the possibility of such a thing partially, but only 

partially You know it cannot be, Yere.” 

* 14 * 


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Henry Lyle. 


“ I do not know it : in fact, I question if we know anything, 
excepting our own present existence. Neither do you. I am 
surprised at you, Lyle.” 

“ For what ?” asked the other. 

“ That you should he so credulous, and so easily led. You 
are a man in mind, when you will ; yet you receive heterodox 
opinions with the unquestioning spirit of a child.” 

“I do not allow the word heterodox with regard to my 
religious opinions ; but you have exactly hit upon what should 
be the case, in your latter observation. Except we become as 
children we cannot receive the kingdom of God. It is not 
man’s intellect which is appealed to in revelation, hut his 
heart.” 

“ That is insulting to man’s intellect, you must allow,” 
said Vere. 

“ Perhaps a rebuff as to his superior understanding would 
do no man harm. We are apt, Yere, to think our own intel- 
lects too all-sufficient ; and depend upon it, the day will come, 
whether we are converted or no, when we shall each find his 
human intellect a broken reed to lean upon. Even yourself, 
Yere, exalted as the powers of your mind are, and able as you 
esteem yourself to stand alone, will some day be as a child in 
weakness. God grant that it may be the humble and teach- 
able spirit of a child of God you will assume !” 

“ You speak as if you judged your words prophetic,” said 
Vere, sarcastically, and looking haughty as Lucifer. “I am 
happy to say I have no such anticipation ; and I think, sir, 
you assume a position which is uncalled for, that of Scripture- 


Henry Lyle. 


323 


lecturer to my conscience,” he continued, getting angry. 

“ I have assumed no position, Yere ; my remarks were 
consequent upon your own ; and even the personal application 
I made to yourself might he taken in return for yours to me, I 
think.” 

“ Perhaps so. Well, I allow no man to stand in the place 
of adviser to me, and I am very well satisfied with my own 
prospects for the future, Mr. Lyle.” 

Lyle looked Yere full in the face, surprised at the change in 
his manner, for the latter could not any longer keep his 
temper. The interest of the passing conversation had diverted 
his thoughts from the object of his interview with Lyle ; but 
now, flushing deep crimson, he said, in a hurried and impetu- 
ous voice, 

“ But we are only wasting time in this discussion ; my 
purpose was otherwise with you, sir, than argument. Will 
you give me satisfaction for your interference in my affairs, or 
is it against your principles to do so ?” asked he, sneeringly. 

Lyle looked inquiringly in his face, but did not answer. 

“ Will you give me a meeting, sir ?” said Yere, between his 
teeth. 

“ No,” answered the other. 

Yere laughed sarcastically. “ I always find,” said he, “ that 
principles are a capital shelter for a coward.” 

“I should deserve the name which you falsely give,” said 
Lyle, calmly, but flushing to the temples, “ did I, for the fear 
of man, forsake my principles. I do not even understand upon 
what plea you demand a meeting. I, or any man, has a right 


324 


Henry Lyle. 


to answer pamphlets publicly given out. Although, had I 
been aware of their author, it would not in any way have 
altered my conduct, yet even your part in them I was igno- 
rant of. Your proposal under any circumstances is absurd, 
under existing ones extremely so.” 

“ Then you decline listening to it ?” asked Yere. 

“ Certainly I do, answered Lyle. 

The other sneered, and raising his hat, left him. 

Lyle returned into the house, hut it was a long time before 
he could regain composure. The galling word which Yere 
had used would recur continually, and, although alone, bring 
a blush to his face, however uncalled for and undeserved. 


Henry Lyle. 


325 


CHAPTER LI. 


“ Thought makes misery !” said Lyle, as if musing upon 
the sentence spoken by Yere. “ Can it be so ? Is a child, 
whom we consider so pre-eminently happy, only so from 
thoughtlessness ?” 

Gussy came and sat down close by him, and answered in 
words the current of his thoughts. 

“And yet I have heard it said that a philosopher must be 
capable of greater happiness than an uneducated man, having 
his mind more expanded ; although a clown feels happiness to 
the utmost of his power.” 

“ And therein a clown must be happier than a philosopher, 
for the latter can place no limit to his aspirations after happi- 
ness. Happiness must consist in enough, and as an unsophis- 
ticated man is content with bacon and beans, and having sat 
down to an inordinate feast of such, feels as if he had placed 
his foot in his Elysium, a clown is happy. A philosopher 


326 


Henry Lyle. 


finds nothing in this world to give him happiness. All is 
vanity and vexation of spirit.” 

“ Yet,” said Augusta, “ a philosopher has the aspiration 
after a future state, the bliss of which he can mentally realize 
better than the other.” 

“ A Christian has, Gussy, whether he be philosopher or 
clown. I was arguing merely of present contentment. Antici- 
pative happiness, however, has always mingled with it a sick- 
ening longing, which is very near akin to weariness.” 

“ Some say anticipation is better than reality.” 

“ In the things of this world it may be, Augusta ; for men 
increase their ideas by long dwelling upon them. The natural 
poetry of the human mind, as some French author says, exag- 
gerates an idea almost unconsciously.” 

“ I have always thought,” resumed Augusta, after a pause, 
“ that the idea of children’s happiness is exaggerated. I 
know, from my own recollection, that I was intensely miserable 
as a child at every the smallest disappointment. 

“ But you were intensely happy at every little gratification, 
and your joys overweighed your griefs.” 

“ Never so happy as I have been since I ceased to be a 
child, Henry. Never so happy as since I have known you,” 
she said. “ I seems to me as if I did not formerly know how 
much happiness I was capable of feeling. I merely existed. I 
did not even know the pleasure of feeling myself an intellectual 
being. Are not you happy, dear Henry ?” she presently asked, 
as he continued looking at her attentively. 

“Am I happy?” he answered; “but I ought not to hesitate 


Henry Lyle. 


327 


or oven to require to ask myself the question. A child does 
not demur if asked if he is happy.” 

“ You appear to think a child a criterion of every essential 
feeling,” observed Augusta. 

“ Of every unsophisticated feeling it is ; of every pure feeling 
it is a criterion ; and as we advance in virtue, we come more 
nearly to the docile and unworldly spirit of a child. Is 
it not so ?” 

“ Of course it is, dear Henry. It is enough for me that you 
say so, whatever it might he.” 

“ That should not be, though, Augusta; you should prove all 
things and all opinions for yourself. Take nothing upon trust 
but revelation in such matters as these we speak of.” 

“ I mean that, in my opinion, you cannot say wrong.” 

“ Would you then be content to have no freedom of 
thought ?” 

“ I would be content that my thoughts should be but a 
transcript of your own. You first taught me to think, and I 
doubt if I could think at all but in the line previously drawn 
by you.” 

“ But supposing I should lead you astray, Augusta ?” 

“ You could not,” said she, confidently. “ I have no fear 
of that ; your principles are too high and too firmly fixed for 
that.” 

“But again, supposing,” said Lyle, looking at her attent- 
ively, and with a slight flush. 

Augusta bent her head upon his hand, saying, 

“ I shall have the memory of your counsel, my darling. I 


328 


Henry Lyle. 


shall still hear your voice repeating the lessons which love has 
engraven on my heart. Even then, you cannot lead me 
wrong.” 

“ How you flatter me, Gussy,” said Henry Lyle, smiling. 
“ You will make me conceited, and you know that after pride 
comes a fall. Besides, my judgment might fail : the best- 
meaning act foolishly at times from want of judgment.” 

“ I have no fear of that, either,” said she, passing her hand 
fondly over his hair, and smoothing it off his magnificent fore- 
head. 

“ Have you any more compliments to pay me, Gussy ? I 
have a very large organ of self-esteem, as you may perceive, 
and can take in a great deal of flattery. Cannot you tell me 
something else pleasant ? ” 


Henry Lyle. 


329 


CHAPTER LII. 


Late that night, Lyle walked out into the streets. He had 
no right, with his had cough and ill health, to be there at that 
time, but prudence was not one of his qualities in self matters, 
and it did not occur to him that he was acting unwisely, 
although Augusta was anxiously looking out for his return, 
blaming herself that she had not warned him against staying 
out late. 

He was buried in thought, and he sauntered away from the 
general thoroughfares until he got into by-ways and alleys, 
such as the city abounds in. As he neared a corner which 
turned into a long lane of houses, almost unlighted, he heard 
an exclamation of savage delight, and the next moment, a 
little in front of him, he perceived two men. The one was 
tall and erect, made more so by the start of surprise which he 
had just given, while the other crouched before him like a 
beast about to spring. 

“ Ah, I have found you at length, have I ?” said the latter 


330 


Henry Lyle. 


who was dressed in a blouse and cap, and spoke in Norman 
patois. “ I have been seeking for you many years, and now 
— now ” 

He seemed to cease speaking from the excitement of his 
mind having deprived him of words, and Lyle advanced 
towards them unperceived, feeling alarmed at the menacing 
tone the man had used. The whole attention of each seemed 
concentrated by the other, and, as they stood thus, like two 
animals at bay, their observer recognized in the man assaulted, 
Arthur Yere. 

Yere did not speak, but his lips were pale with agitation, 
his eyes fell to the ground before those of his opponent, and he 
made an effort unsuccessfully more than once to address him. 

“ Yillain !” said the other, “you dare not meet the eye of 
her brother : you are powerless, silenced in the presence of her 
avenger.” And almost shrieking the name of “ Pauline De- 
schamps,” the man sprang towards Yere with a knife raised 
in his hand. 

But the hand was caught by Lyle, and the fury of the Nor- 
man was turned upon him. Yere seemed paralyzed by the 
meeting and the suddenness of the interference, and gazed 
stupidly at the two as they struggled together. 

It was not for long that the struggle continued. Lyle 
received the knife in his left side, for Deschamps was not 
master of himself, until, aware of what he had done, the man 
was struck with remorse, and exclaimed : 

“ I did not mean that : why did you come between us ? I 
would not have injured you ; it was against him only I was 
armed.” 


Henry Lyle. 


331 


He bent down over Henry Lyle as he spoke, for Lyle had 
been forced on his knee, and was bleeding profusely. Horrified 
at seeing the blood, Deschamps commenced wiping it away 
with his blouse, and Yere approached. 

“ Out of my sight !” exclaimed the Norman. “ You are 
safe : I am not fit for a murderer, I see. I do not like the 
sight of blood. You may thank God and your countryman 
here for your life. Go : leave me with this brave man ; do 
not you touch him ; you are a villain.” 

Yere, however, came nearer, and addressed Lyle. 

“ I hope sir,” said he, “ that you will give me another 
opportunity more fitting than the present of thanking you for 
your prompt and courageous interference. I owe my life to 
your intervention. I am indeed distressed that you should 
have received personal injury in my defence. May I not assist 
you to your house ?” 

Deschamps, who partially understood the preceding speech, 
here interfered, declaring that he would take the gentleman to 
his home, and wanted no assistance from such as Yere. The 
latter murmured some threat against the man who chose to 
thwart him, in which an allusion to justice was made ; but 
Deschamps boldly confronted him with a look as if it required 
very little to call the knife into play again, and answered, 

“ You dare not, Yere — you dare not.” 

“Iam most happy to have been of any service,” said Lyle, 
in a voice so altered by pain that Yere did not recognize it. 
“ I have no doubt that my friend here will take care of me.” 

“ Friend !” echoed Deschamps, in a tone of sympathy. 

They were not far from a cab-stand, and Yere went to it and 


332 


Henry Lyle. 


hailed one, while Deschamps remained with Lyle, filling up 
the time with regrets for what had happened, and assurances 
of the unintentional part he himself had taken in it. 

Notwithstanding Deschamps’ dislike to his assistance, Yere 
waited until he had seen Lyle placed in the cab, and inquiring 
of Deschamps the address, was told by the Norman to mind 
his own affairs. 

The motion of the carriage set the wound bleeding again, to 
the great distress of Lyle’s companion. 

By the time the two arrived at the lodgings Augusta was 
almost distracted with anxiety, an alarm which was not allayed 
by seeing her husband supported into the house by a strange 
man, and vainly striving to conceal the faintness which nearly 
overcame him. For some hours she asked no questions, exert- 
ing herself only to facilitate his recovery by attending to the 
orders of the doctor, and suffering silently in every change of 
Lyle’s face. 

"When Augusta inquired the particulars of Lyle’s accident, 
he detailed to her the facts exactly as they had occurred, but 
did not mention that it was Arthur Yere whom he had rescued. 
Perhaps he dreaded a self-satisfied consciousness that he had 
been heaping coals of fire upon his enemy’s head. 

Yere did not remember until some time afterwards that he 
was unaware of his preserver’s name, and the following day, 
when, in real gratitude, he called at the principal hotels in the 
town, inquiring for such a person, he could hear of no English 
gentleman who had been wounded on the previous night, and 
was obliged to leave Florenoe without being able to express 
his thanks. 


Henry Lyle. 


333 


CHAPTER LIII. 


Let us go home, my love : it is useless struggling any longer. 
I would sooner die in my own land ; and I could not leave 
you, my Augusta, amongst strangers.” 

So Lyle and Augusta came back to England to spend his 
few remaining months or weeks at his earthly home, before he 
went Home for ever. 

"Willy Benson quickly discovered their return. On the same 
evening of their arrival in town the lad was at their lodgings, 
having guessed their being there no one knew how, with a 
large bouquet of flowers, which he had got no one knew 
where. He cried heartily at seeing Mr. Lyle looking so ill ; for 
he was no scholar of the feelings, and went back to the court 
and to Benson’s abode with miserable tales of regret that 
Henry Lyle was dying. 

“It is always the way,” observed Dick Carter, in reply to 
Willy’s remarks upon the subject, more conspicuous for kind- 


334 


Henry Lyle. 


ness than judgment — “ it is always the way : those which are 
the most wanted are the ones taken. Mr. Lyle will be a loss 
to many here, I know ; but it is no use crying about it, Willy, 
my man. Such things must be.” 

Notwithstanding, Dick Carter cried over it himself when he 
was alone, but he excused himself, on the plea that it was Mrs. 
Lyle he pitied, for who would look after her, poor little thing, 
when Lyle was gone ? 

The poor always express their sympathy and interest by 
making presents, and a very effectual and beautiful way of 
doing so it is ; and so Dick Carter, on the following day, went 
to see the Lyles with an offering of flowers and fruit. 

Augusta was startled at the sight of the gift, for she knew 
that the man must have gone to some expense for it, and she 
showed hesitation in her manner of accepting it, which, had 
she reflected a moment, she would have avoided. 

The man repeated his regret at finding Mr. Lyle so ill, and 
again offered the flowers and fruit. 

“ My dear Carter, I scarcely like to take it from you.” 

The mason glanced towards Lyle, and coloured. 

“ I am sure it is little enough, ma’am,” said he ; “ anything 
I could offer you would be poor indeed, when I think of all 
that he has done for me.” 

Henry Lyle stretched out his hand to the man, and Dick 
Carter shuffled out of the room, to avoid further remarks upon 
his presents. 

Lyle did not speak for a few moments after his friend had 
left, but Augusta saw that his eyes filled with tears as he 


Henry Lyle. 


335 


played with the flowers, and stooped over them to examine 
them more closely. 

“ Are they not beautiful ?” she asked, wishing to break the 
silence. 

“ What have I ever done for that man, that he should 
express gratitude towards me?” exclaimed Lyle; “nothing 
that I can remember — nothing. Oh ! Gussy, they who com- 
plain of the world’s ingratitude speak of that which they know 
not. There is more gratitude in the world than kind actions 
to bring it forth, I sometimes think.” 

“ Perhaps those who talk of the world’s ingratitude are 
those who overrate their own actions. There are who under- 
rate them, Harry, darling.” 

“ I can assure, you Augusta,” continued Lyle, “ that I have 
very often in life had to exclaim, as I did just now, what have 
I done to deserve these thanks ? I feel guilty towards Richard 
Carter, now, that his acknowledgments should so far outweigh 
his obligations ; but he has his reward in the virtue of the 
feeling.” 

Augusta did not reply that Henry Lyle had incurred the 
gratitude of the poor who knew him, by his kind sympathy 
with their distresses, his affectionate words, and brotherly 
interest, although he had been unable very tangibly to assist 
them in every instance ; yet she thought it, though she forbore 
to put an end to the childish wonder which came so becom- 
ingly from the unworldly heart of her husband. 


336 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER. LIV. 


Mrs. Yere died. 

Her son had been her life, and without him she was nothing. 

For days and weeks she had looked forward to the prospect 
of some word from him ; hut hope deferred made fearful work, 
as days and weeks had passed and not a line arrived. The 
temple of her idol being empty, reft of its only treasure, itself 
fell into ruins and decay. Her death was sudden at the last : 
one day she became seriously ill ; ' the next the physician 
was alarmed and wrote to Yere, on the chance of finding him, 
addressing to the Poste Restante, at Florence — for the news- 
papers had mentioned he was there — entreating him, if he 
wished to see his mother, to return ; and the third day evening 
he wrote again, to tell him all in this world was over. 

Mrs. Seymour was summoned one morning suddenly to wait 
upon Mrs. Yere, for on her death-bed the poor lady scarcely 
knew where to turn for sympathy, and the remembrance of the 


Henry Lyle. 


337 


kindness, unasked-for and unfeigned, which Mrs. Seymour had 
always shown, came as a ray of hope to the heart of Mrs. 
Yere. 

It was painful to see the earnestness with which the poor 
woman watched for the arrival of her son, for she could not 
think otherwise than that he would come, for she had written 
to him so often that she longed to see him, that she believed 
nothing of those things tliey said against him : he was to her 
still her dear, beautiful, talented Arthur — he would surely 
come and answer her in person, as he had not written. In 
the intervals of her pain, for she was dying of an epidemic to 
which she had rashly exposed herself, and which took frightful 
hold upon her in her then weak state, she always asked if he 
were come, and Mrs. Seymour’s heart ached as she each time 
answered, “Not yet.” 

“ He will be here soon,” murmured Mrs. Yere ; “ let me 
know as soon as he arrives.” And forgetting her own illness, 
and all but her affection for him, she would continue in a half- 
conscious manner, “ I must see that everything is ready for 
him — he would not like to find his rooms in disorder ; I will 
not listen to anything against him — you are quite wrong.” 

On the third day she lay quite still, listening to every noise ; 
ind Mrs. Seymour sat beside her, almost beginning to expect 
Arthur’s arrival through the earnestness with which Mrs. Yere 
looked for it. The dying woman had been silent for some 
time, and Mrs. Seymour had hoped that she was turning her 
thoughts to other and more important things, as she felt her 
last hour approaching. Many times had her friend desired to 


338 


Henry Lyle. 


read to her, and Mrs. Vere would assent, and for a moment 
listen, but then would interrupt, and start up in the bed, exclaim- 
ing, “ I think I heard his footstep ! — he is here, is he not .?” 
Then finding herself deceived, she would sink back on the 
pillow with a sigh, and be apparently lost in thought of her 
son. Arthur had been his mother’s god : the idol still kept its 
place in her dying hour. 

She had been deliriously raving— always of him — during 
the morning, but now she was sensible and calm. 

“ Mrs. Seymour,” said she, “ turning to her friend, “ do they 
say that I am dying ?” And she shuddered. Mrs. Seymour 
bowed her head, and Mrs. Vere closed her eyes and lay back 
upon the pillow. 

“ Oh, why does he not come ?” she murmured. “ Will he 
come to me ? Do you think he will come ?” 

“ I hope so, dear,” said Mrs. Seymour. “ Try to think of 
other things : try to think of eternal things.” 

“ Mrs. Vere did not speak again for some time, and when 
the doctor came in he pronounced her very much weaker. 
He was expecting another physician, and looked out anxiously 
for his arrival ; and Mrs. Seymour perceived, by his nervous 
manner, that he feared an almost immediate change. 

She felt very wretched as she looked at her friend — so 
thoughtlessly she had lived, and so thoughtlessly she seemed 
to die — and she could alone pray that the seriousness which 
now pervaded the features of Mrs. Vere might be through the 
realization of her position. 

Mrs. Vere’s eyes were closed as the other watched her, and 


Henry Lyle. 


339 


while she did so there was a muffled knock at the hall-door. 

Mrs. Yere started and listened : there was a footstep on tho 
stairs so soft as to be almost undistinguishable, and she raised 
herself slightly in the bed, and as the footstep came near her 
chamber she trembled with expectation. 

The doctor opened the door, for he knew who it was com- 
ing, and, with a shriek, Mrs. Yere sprang almost out of the 
bed, and as the other physician came near to the side, she 
flung herself forward towards him — and died, thinking it was 
her son. 

His' miniature was found around her neck, his hair in a 
locket on her bosom, and Mrs. Seymour would not let them be 
removed, but buried the picture and memorial of her darling 
with her. 

One day Yere had been walking in the streets of Rome 
many hours. He was restless, anxious, and uncomfortable. 
Was it strange he should be so ? He had lived a life of sin, 
and perhaps the tormenting thoughts which harassed him 
might be the commencement of retribution. He was dissatis- 
fied ; but that he always had been. He had no inward 
peace, and such a man cannot be quiet when alone. Yet he 
had all that day traversed the streets alone ; he had avoided 
others if he met them. A dull cloud of the future seemed to 
hang before his brows ; but, strangely, he courted rather than 
avoided it. The darkness came on suddenly, and objects were 
indistinct almost before the idea of sun was over ; but still 
Yere walked about the streets of Rome, and did not turn 
towards his temporary home. Once he paused, and leant 


340 


Henry Lyle. 


against the pillar of a porch. What would a man do in such 
a case, when out upon a dark but lovely night, but look up to 
the skies above him, as if to pierce through the unfathomable 
depth ? and an awful but glad feeling would come over him, 
that Nature is so sublime, and God so good ! 

Yere did not do so. If he glanced towards heaven, his eyes 
were quickly withdrawn again. To him the skies could have 
no beauty, because for him no God was there. It was a 
characteristic in him that his eyes were always downwards. 
Eyes are the glossary of the heart, if not of the mind. 

There was something lay upon a door-step near to where he 
stood, so small it might have been a bundle, or a little dog 
curled up ; it was shaded by the pillar of the porch, and all 
passed it without observation. Yet when Yere saw it, he 
moved towards the spot, and looked at it attentively. He took 
two or three more steps, yet could not refrain from turning 
round to look again at the. little thing as it lay, and then he 
stopped and approached close to it, to examine what it was. 
At the same moment, the little bundle moved and started up, 
and gazed anxiously about from side to side. “ Mamma !” 
called the child. Then, seeing Yere, it changed its cry, and 
running up to him in terror, said, “ Oh, take me home, 
papa !” 

There is no man, there can be no man, however hardened 
against good, which in all respects Yere was not, who could 
deliberately spurn a child. He stooped down towards it and 
examined its face. It was a truly English child, which its 
words had shown, with large blue eyes and a quantity of fail 


Henry Lyle. 


341 


curling hair. To Yere’s astonishment, it was well dressed, and 
seemed to have wandered away from home and fallen asleep 
upon the door-step, while the darkness of evening came on 
suddenly and unperceived. The child seemed frightened when 
it saw that Yere was not, its father, and began to sob. 

“ I will take you home,” said he, in a kind tone ; “do you 
think you can show me the way ?” 

“ Oh yes, I know where mamma lives ; will you take me 
please ?” And the child held out its little hand to Yere. It 
seemed such a morsel of a thing to be walking at that time of 
night, with its head and neck and arms uncovered, and Yere 
stopped and asked if he should carry it. 

“ Yes, please,” said the child, “ you walk so fast.” 

“What is your name? asked he, for he did not know 
whether it was a boy or a girl. 

“ Augusta,” answered the child. 

For a moment Yere stood it upon the pavement again and 
sighed, but it was only for a moment ; he again took her up in 
his arms, and wrapped his great-coat round her, trusting to her 
to direct him where to go. 

“What is your name ?” said Augusta, who, like all children, 
became talkative directly her fears were quieted. 

Yere told her. There seemed to be something attractive in 
Yere to the child’s fancy ; perhaps it was his outward beauty, 
or perhaps it was a good angel speaking through the baby’s 
innocent voice. She talked incessantly, running on, scarcely 
waiting a moment for an answer. 

“ Look at the stars !” said Augusta, turning her blue eyes 


342 


Henry Lyle. 


up to heaven. “ Look also, Arthur. Mamma says the stars 
should make us think of God ; I think of God when I see the 
stars. Do you ? Do you think the stars can see us and tell 
God what we do when it is dark ? But God can see without 
the stars telling Him, cannot He ?” 

Yere gave no answer. 

“Do you love God, Arthur ? It must he very sorrowful not 
to love Him, for God loves us, does He not V* 

Still Yere did not reply. 

“ The devil does not love God, I suppose, does he, Arthur ?” 

“ No, child, no.” 

Yere had disputed on religion, had argued with his opposers, 
and thought his sophistries came off triumphant ; but now he 
had no answer ready for this little child. He felt abashed and 
guilty before a baby. 

The child continued as if the words were taught it, whilst 
every sentence fixed itself in Yere’s memory, as the low, gentle 
notes of its voice gave utterance to them. 

“ I have not said my prayers yet. Oh ! I hope mamma 
will not he sorry I am out ; I hope God will not he sorry I 
have not said my prayers. You are a kind man,” stroking his 
face with her hand, “ to take me home. I think you must 
love God. I shall say my prayers for you, Arthur, shall I ?” 

Almost involuntarily, before he was aware of it, Yere had 
said “ Yes.” 

At that moment they rounded the corner of the street, and 
Augusta called out, delighted, that they were near her home. 
The hall-door of the house was open, the passages lighted, and 


Henry Lyle. 


343 


k,t*' vhole household in a state of confusion, when, ringing at 
the toell, half a dozen people rushed to the door. 

“ Mamma !” said the child, almost springing out of Yere’s 
arms And the mother pressed it to her heart. 

We will not relate particularly what was all told to Yere — 
the loss of the child — the agony and suspense whilst looking 
for it. The father was still out in search of it. Augusta’s 
mother loaded Yere with thanks, and wished him to remain 
until her husband returned; hut he declined, under the plea of 
its being already late, saying that he was happy in being the 
means of restoring the child to its mother ; and what he said, 
he felt sincerely. 

“ You are not going away,” said little Augusta, coaxingly ; 
“ no, stay with me and mamma.” But Yere rose, and told 
her he must go. The child had climbed upon a chair to reach 
up to him, and, as he turned round to wish her good night, 
she put her little fat arms round his neck and kissed him 
innocently. 

“ Good night, Arthur ; God bless you.” 

This is a common saying in almost everybody’s mouth, old 
and young, but it was long since it had been used to Yere, and 
he had a strange feeling in his bosom as he lifted Augusta in 
his arms, and kissed her oftener and more frequently than 
would be usual in a stranger. 

It was now late, and he walked quickly to his hotel, unable 
to get rid of the child’s words, which rang in his ears. The 
accidental incident of her name had awakened in Yere’s heart 
all the old feelings which he had striven to crush, and his 


344 


Henry Lyle. 

heart itself was going back to the old influence. Again 
Augusta Leigh was telling him, in her unflinching way, that 
he was wrong, and looking all the while so gently at him, that 
she made him, at times, almost honest against his own worse 
nature. 


Henry Lyle. 


345 


CHAPTER LV. 


To his hotel he returned, and sat down alone in the public 
room. Alone indeed, wretchedly alone, as he had been 
through life. There were several others present, speaking in 
different languages, some arguing on common subjects of 
interest, waiters were hurrying in and out, politics being dis- 
cussed ; but Yere heeded nothing. He was in bodily pain : he 
had been so often lately, but of that he was unaware now. 

“I say, my good fellow, are not you going to recognize me ?” 
said a voice near to him, which was not unfamiliar. 

Arthur Yere looked up. There was a dreaminess about the 
room and the voice — an unreality ; hut this must be shaken 
off. And with an effort, never yet unsuccessfully made by 
him, he crushed down the mental spectre, and roused himself 

to the fact that Sir "William S was by his chair, and was 

addressing him. 

“ Well ! resumed the baronet, as Yere raised his eyes quickly 

to his face, “ you have been wool-gathering, I fancy.” 

15 * 


346 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Something like it,” the other answered. “ What brings 
you here ? When did you leave London ? Where do you 
intend going ?” 

“I came here for amusement,” answered Sir William S . 

“ I left London a week since, and I am going anywhere or 
nowhere, as inclination prompts me.” 

“ And what is the news ?” asked Yere, making another 
effort to rouse himself from private thoughts. 

“Not much general news ; at least, no more than what you 
know. I say, Yere, they are handling you pretty roughly in 
town.” 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“ Why everybody knows who wrote certain things he ought 
not to have written, and everybody is, consequently, shocked. 
It is the fashion to be shocked, and you are no longer the Yere 
you used to be. Even your staunch friends, those two fools of 
Delavilles, shake their heads and groan.” 

“ And B , of course.” 

“ B is a very good fellow,” said Sir William S . 

He will not be puffed and lionised in your room. He 
expressed himself to me as very much annoyed at your having 
acted so rashly. Really, Yere, begging your pardon, you have 
been a great fool. 

“ Perhaps so, in the opinion of those who care what the 
world thinks,” answered Yere, carelessly ; but I have the 
pleasure of knowing that other people are greater fools still.” 

“ I fear though, my good fellow, that you have lost public 
opinion.” 


Henry Lyle. 


347 


“ Public opinion !” echoed Yere, contemptuously. “ I made 
my name myself, and I can make it again. Public opinion I 
know the worth of.” 

Sir William S gave a half-whistle, which might have 

been interpreted into an expression of dissent, doubt, or impa- 
tience ; and remarked after a pause, 

“ That poor young Lyle is dying very fast, it seems.” 

Yere started. He was well aware of the fact, we know ; 
but the remark touched an unpleasant train of thought. 

“ Did not you know it ?” said Sir William. 

“Yes, yes,” said Yere, “of course. I saw him before he left 
Florence.” 

Sir William S was dull at perceiving that the conver- 

sation was obnoxious to his companion, and he resumed : 

“It is a great pity. By-the-by, there is one circumstance 
rather unaccountable. It seems that he was doing very well, 
and they were intending to go on to Home, when Lyle was 
half murdered one night in the streets of Florence. What on 
earth could he have been about ! Some Quixotism, perhaps. 
He is a strange fellow.” 

“ It could not have been he ; it was not his voice ; impossible 
it was he,” said Yere, excitedly 

“ Who ? What are you talking of?” asked Sir William 
S . 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” said the other. “ I am overtired, 
and will wish you good night. I am afraid I am but dull 
company.” And he rose from his seat wearily. 

“ Why, Yere, my good man !” said Sir William, “ I should 


348 


Henry Lyle. 


not know you for the same person. You are quite changed.” 

He spoke thoughtlessly, but the words, as almost all words 
now, struck upon Yere’s newly-recovered conscience. 

“ Am I ?” said he, with bitterness ; and then added, in a 
lower voice, “ I would I were ! — would I were anything but 
what I am !” 

“ "What do you say ? I do not understand you.” 

“ I must leave you now, Sir William. Good night : you 
must excuse me.” 

At the same moment one of the attendants handed him two 
or three letters. They were from England, and had black 
borders. 

“ No bad news, I trust,” ejaculated Sir William S , as 

Yere opened and read them one after the other, and crushed 
them into his pocket. He accompanied the question by a look 
of curious inquiry, as if waiting for an answer. 

“ My mother !” said Yere, in explanation. 

“Not — eh?” again inquired Sir William, avoiding the 
objectionable word. 

“ Dead !” said Arthur Yere, shortly. 

Sir William S looked correctly for the occasion, and 

gave forth the little notes of commiseration which are well 
imitated by an angry squirrel, but which we hardly know 
how to spell : “ Tch — tch — tch !” 

The baronet would have liked to have asked particulars, 
but he felt that his companion was in no humour for standing 
inquisitive questioning, and he wisely forbore. 

Yere did not, as he had said, go to his own room. He left 


Henry Lyle. 


349 


the hotel, and was not seen again that night. He showed no 
outward emotion at the news which he had received, but it 
was the last stroke required to send conviction home to his 
conscience. 

It was not the sudden news of any death which could have 
made Yere stop short in his career of sin. The work had been 
insensibly going on for some time past, and all the events and 
reflections of that day and night had served to bring to a crisis 
that which had been growing into a persuasion, and to shake 
for ever all the false principles by which he had surrounded 
himself. 

Yere had slighted his mother, and returned all her devoted 
love with indifference ; but when the sudden tidings of her 
death were sent him, a thick cloud of all his sins against her 
rose before his mind, and the remembrance of her unwearied 
love struck home to his own heart. The most callous must 
feel such things when those they have injured are no more. 
Love is not wasted : Yere was not callous ; he warped his 
feelings, but could not destroy them. What passed through 
his mind the few days following the receipt of the doctor’s 
letter, who can tell ? 

But what should he do ? He had no object in life : he was 
alone, quite alone ; and it was best for him to be so ; for he 
could not, when alone, drive away reproachful and accusing 
thoughts which rose against him. Yet he did not now, as 
heretofore, shun solitude; although, at times, his conscience 
drove him almost to frenzy. Oh, the way of transgressors is 
bard, — which they will one day feel, however long they may 


350 


Henry Lyle. 


drive away the conviction. Yere was convicted by his own 
conscience, which seemed to have gained giant strength by the 
long repose it had enjoyed. Thank God we have a con- 
science ! And thank God that conscience will not always be 
put to sleep, but will come down upon us sooner or later, 
sweeping all false reasoning before it. Let us take heed that 
we refuse not it that speaketh, for “ he that being often 
reproved, hardeneth his neck, shall suddenly come to destruc- 
tion, and that without remedy.” 

Sir William S wrote thus to Mr. B , with whom 

he kept up a lively correspondence : 

“ Who do you think I met yesterday ? I did not know he 
was in Rome. Arthur Yere ! That is to say, the man who 
was once Arthur Yere. I never saw a fellow so changed. I 
cannot think what has come over him. He has lost a great 

deal of his good looks, although gaining in what the D s 

would call interesting . He is a complete wreck. 

“ I could not gain from him any of his plans, he was so 
taciturn and irritable, and he expressed no interest in home 
matters. It is a fortunate thing, as it turns out, that his 
mother is gone ; for, upon my honour, I believe he now will 
not he long before he follows her. W T ell, well, we see great 
changes. And how goes on your hook? I heard a capital 
piece of scandal the other day, which I will repeat to your 
profit, &c., &c.” 


Henry Lyle. 


351 


CHAPTER LYI 


“ My dear Sir William, who would have thought of meeting 
with you ? This is indeed charming. And when did you return 
to England ? And what have you been doing abroad ? And 
what is the news ? Come, tell me everything.” 

So said Miss Delaville the elder, as she encountered Sir 

William S at the entrance of Swan and Edgar’s whither 

she was entering, and from whence Sir William was about to 
make his exit. 

“ Come hack with me, and tell all about it ; hut I forgot, 
you horrid men detest shopping, and you will be laughing at 
me if I am particular.” 

Sir William S assured the lady that shopping was his 

favourite pastime, especially when it was of a prolonged char- 
acter; and then prepared to answer the numerous questions 
which had been put to him already. 

“And that wretch Yere, you saw him at Rome, did you 


352 


Henry Lyle. 


not ?” said Miss Delaville, when all her previous demands had 
been satisfied. 

“ I saw that wretch Vere,” answered Sir William S , 

“ but only once, and for a short time. He is much altered.” 

“ Altered !” exclaimed the lady. “ How ? In what way V* 

“ Why, he seemed to me quite broken up. I do not know 
what is become of him now. I suspect there is something 
very wrong there.” 

The lady expressed being shocked by her countenance, and 
even forgot to look at the “articles” which the shopman waa 
showing to her. 

“ I could not help being struck by the change in his face,” 

said Sir William S , gravely. “ Do you remember that, at 

times, a very odd look used to come over him ?” 

“ I always thought he was a most interesting man,” said 
Miss Delaville, with pathos. 

“ But I mean when he was quiet ; he had an expression of 
sadness, which, I suppose, you ladies, by-the-by, would call in- 
teresting; very unlike his usual haughty look.” 

“ Oh, I know so well what you mean,” said Miss Delaville, 
enthusiastically, “ that sweet expression.” 

“ Well, he had that very look all the while I spoke to him ; 
I was really quite distressed to see him so down, poor fellow ; 
I tried to cheer him up, and told him all the news of home, 
but they did not appear to interest him much.” 

“ Dear, dear 1” said Miss Delaville, in a plaintive voice. 
“ No,” turning to the shopman, and still in the same tone, “ I 
dont think that will do ; I prefer a paler shade of pink ;” to 


Henry Lyle. 


353 


Sir William S : “ deep colours are so very trying. I had 

always a great regard for Mr. Vere, really I had. What 
a very charming man Mr. B is, hut so shy : I find it diffi- 

cult to get him to come to us at all.” 

“ What has become of Lyle, whom I used to meet at your 
house?” inquired Sir William. 

“ Really, I have not heard of him for a long time ; it is very 
neglectful of me ; I am quite glad, my dear Sir William, that 
you have reminded me. I will go to-morrow and inquire how 
he is. I have always admired Henry Lyle, of all people ; so 
very talented, and really a most estimable man.” 

It was in consequence of the foregoing remarks that on the 
following day Augusta was surprised at hearing the name of 
Miss Delaville, as requesting to see her. 

It was a long time since those ladies, once so enthusiastic in 
their affection towards her, had expressed any interest in her 
welfare. They had been engrossed with newer and more 
cheerful topics than the gradually-dying Henry Lyle and his 
distressed wife. 

Augusta, as she rose, repeated the name of Miss Delaville to 
her husband, and inquired if she should be admitted. 

Lyle hesitated for a moment, but then answered, 

“ If she wishes it, Gussy, I do not mind seeing her. She 
has sometimes expressed great kindness towards you : yes, ask 
her to come in.” 

Augusta sought her visitor, and after telling her of Lyle’s 
state, asked if she would wish to see him. 

“ Oh, if I should not disturb him, my dearest Augusta, I 


354 


Henry Lyle. 


should so like to see him ; it is long since I have, hut really 
there are so many things*to be attended to, and my occupation* 
are such ” 

Augusta led the way up stairs as Miss Delaville thus added 
excuses for her neglect, and opened the door of the room where 
was Henry Lyle. 

Miss Delaville felt dreadfully shocked when she saw him ; 
she was scarcely prepared for the change which a protracted 
illness had stamped on his face, but she thought at the same 
time that he looked very interesting, with the bright feverish 
colour in his cheeks, and his brilliant and unnaturally large 
eyes ; and when she had sufficiently collected her faculties to 
address him, it was in words of compliment. 

“ You look very picturesque, I am sure, Mr. Lyle, with that 
magnificent beard and moustaches. Augusta, you should 
make him paint his own portrait when he gets well again : it 
would be charming.” 

Henry Lyle smiled as he answered, 

“ Gussy will never have the portrait, Miss Delaville, if I am 
to paint it, for I shall never paint again on earth ; I am dying 
very fast.” 

“ Oh no, no !” exclaimed the lady ; “ pray do not think so : 
indeed you are not.” 

“ Indeed I am,” said Lyle, gently. 

“ Augusta, you should not let him mope himself with such 
fancies.” said the visitor, turning towards Mrs. Lyle. 

Augusta quietly shook her head, but she gave no answer, 
and Lyle resumed : 


I-Ienry Lyle. 


355 


“Do you think I mope myself, Miss Delaville?” What 
would it avail me to shut my eyes to what are facts ? I know 
that I must die before long : is it not better to meet death 
bravely, as I can ? It is only habit can accustom us to look 
at it calmly, for death is horrid always to human nature : our 
very instinct is against it.” 

“ Horrid, indeed !” murmured Miss Delaville, shudderingly, 
and speaking the honest thought of her heart at the time. 

“ I am speaking of Death itself, as coming to the body, 
without alluding to the thoughts connected with that change, 
which have power to rob it of all its horrors, and make us look 
upon it as, to each of us, the beginning of life.” 

Miss Delaville put her handkerchief to her eyes, for she was 
easily moved to tears. 

“When we look at the end of this existence in such a light, 
death is a blessed gift, which brings with it but one regret, 
that all we love cannot at the same time be partakers of it.” 

“ Ah ! indeed,” sighed Miss Delaville : “ I am sure you are 
very happy, Mr. Lyle, to be able to think so.” 

“ We should all think so, my dear lady,” said he. 

“And I am sure,” continued Miss Delaville, “ that if ever a 
man ought to be resigned and happy to die, you ought, Mr. 
Lyle ; for I have always said, my dear Augusta, that your 
husband is the best man I ever knew, and, no doubt, deserves 
to go to heaven.” 

“ Oh, hush ! pray hush !” said Henry Lyle, his face flushing 
with emotion, and assuming a look of intense pain : “ deserve 
to go to heaven ! Are these words to be used of a sinner 


356 


Henry Lyle. 


hastening into the presence of his God ? Who but One ever 
deserved heaven ? Are we yet so little Christian as to attempt 
such an argument as that ?” 

Miss Delaville looked abashed, but answered with real 
feeling, 

“Do not say, are we so little Christian, Mr. Lyle? You 
are right, and I was very wrong.” 

“ God bless you, Miss Delaville,” said Henry Lyle, extending 
his hand towards her ; and she buried her face in her handker- 
chief and sobbed aloud, while Lyle looked in concern from her 
to Augusta. 

It was the last time Miss Delaville ever saw Henry Lyle. 


Henry Lyle. 


357 


CHAPTER LYII. 


The soft, low tones of Augusta’s voice came through the 
open window, for the evening was warm, and there was 
scarcely a perceptible breath of air. The couch of Lyle had 
been drawn towards the window, and over the tops of the 
houses he had watched the sun go down. 

“Not yet,” urged he, as Augusta expressed a fear that the 
evening air might injure him, and would have closed it out ; 
and then the listener might have heard that Lyle was smiling, 
as he added, “ I do not believe, my darling, that it makes any 
difference whether I expose myself or not.” 

Augusta was reading aloud, but she did not progress much 
with the book, for almost after every paragraph she paused to 
speak to Lyle, whose voice in answer struck fearfully on the 
ear of the man below. 

At that hour Arthur Yere lingered beneath the window of 
the Lyles, attentively listening to all that passed. 


Henry Lyle. 


3oa 

“ Put by the book and talk to me, Gussy.” And there was 
a movement, followed by a pause, until Augusta resumed her 
seat. They little thought they had so close a listener, and they 
chatted unreservedly and cheerfully. There was nothing of 
gloom and despondency in any of their words, although one of 
them was dying day by day ; and every now and then even a 
short laugh would rise above the words of Lyle — from him, not 
from Augusta — a light laugh, as light as on the evening which 
Vere so well remembered, when Lyle’s merriment had caused 
the remarks of Mr. B . 

“ Impossible,” asked Yere, mentally, “ that such lightness 
of heart and buoyancy can exist even at such a time ? Can 
nothing crush this man ? Is he invulnerable to the effects of 
calamity ?” 

Yes, Yere ; calamity, such as you think it, is met more than 
half way in such a Heaven-supported heart ; and Lyle will go 
down to the grave in the same spirit of peace and cheerful res- 
ignation as he has lived. 

It was no longer with the same feelings of revenge as here- 
tofore that Arthur Yere listened outside the Lyles’ house. He 
could not have explained the impulse which had sent him 
there at that hour of the night, nor argued upon the influence 
which forced him to remain and hearken to words which cut 
him to the heart — Augusta’s expressions of endearment towards 
her husband, and Lyle’s noble principles and heavenly aspira- 
tions. 

Then Augusta again argued with Lyle, and persuaded him 
to have the window shut; and so the conversation was stopped 


Henry Lyle. 


359 


to Vere, and he only heard still the murmuring voices. He 
walked to the opposite side of the street, and leant against one 
of the houses languidly, and he watched still the window of 
the Lyles. He could see Augusta’s figure flit past, pictured 
upon the blind, which was now drawn down, and Vere sighed 
audibly. 

How little thought Henry Lyle, ever so ready to answer the 
call of the afflicted and suffering, that so near him was a man 
suffering more acutely than any of the objects who daily 
claimed relief, both in mind and body. Vere turned away 
from the window, and walked slowly from the street. 

It was in vain : old fancies were useless now as arms against 
these conflicting thoughts. All things seemed vain ; for the 
bed which he had prepared for himself was shorter than that 
a man could stretch himself on it, and the covering narrower 
than that he could wrap himself in it. 

Nothing could crush this man ! Henry Lyle’s had been a 
life of outward struggle — ever keeping Poverty at arm’s length 
with difficulty — a life of fears and apprehensions very often 
for the future ; but it had been a happy life. He had carried 
from the cradle his own fountain of peace and happiness, and 
circumstances could never daunt him. 

It was then true, that which Arthur Vere had often heard, 
that which he had preached, but had never practically believ- 
ed, that happiness is in a man’s own mind ; yet Vere had 
never known happiness, although he flattered himself that his 
own mind was all-powerful. Why had all his attempts at the 
ruin of Henry Lyle been defeated ? Misfortunes had fallen 


360 


Henry Lyle. 


harmless, and still Lyle could smile, even to his grave. Arthur 
Yere shuddered at the thoughts brought before him by the 
concluding word. It would be a study, an interesting study, 
he thought, to ask Lyle the reason of these things. There 
could be nothing without a reason. 

“ And I will give you Rest.” 

Where did the words come from as they sounded in the ears 
of Arthur Yere? Did some passer-by say them? No; he 
could not see any one in the street besides himself ; and yet he 
had seemed to hear them. Whose words were they ? Where 
had he known them before — years ago ? 

Yere’s head felt confused and wandering. 

Rest : it was what he had never yet attained. Should he 
ever find it ? There was no such thing as rest in this world, 
he knew. Where was there rest ? In the grave ? 

The thoughts flitted through his mind without his bidding 
Some one else was working the machine without his guidance. 

Who could tell if there were rest beyond this world.? Was 

a man to go on ever, ever thinking, until what ? It was 

very maddening to contemplate such a possibility. He could 
not think at all ; he felt afraid of his own thoughts, he, who 
had boasted of making intellect a slave. 


Henry Lyle 


36 1 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


It has been raining violently the whole afternoon, and the 
paving stones are running like a stream, whilst from the 
eaves large drops are falling and splashing heavily and loud 
upon the heads of unhappy passengers. But this is not a 
night for passengers ; even the tired cab-horses slip as they 
try to draw up near the overflowing gutters, and the drivers 
have to jerk them quickly to prevent their falling on their 
knees. A miserable pariah dog, with his tail hanging down 
between his legs, and his ears making two streams of water, 
trots slowly along the streets, having no house to which to 
go, and looking anxiously from side to side, lest, even on so 
wet a night as this, some missile should be thrown at his 
head. The lamps are mirrored in the pools of water and 
show the whole length of the almost deserted Strand. There 
is a tall figure leaning against the rails of King Charles the 
First’s equestrian statue, apparently regardless of the pouring 


362 


Henry Lyle. 


rain ; he has been there at least some hours ; hut now he moves 
and crosses to the pavement near Northumberland House. 
His step is very unsteady, although hurried, and his arms are 
folded on hi3 breast, as' he totters on for some half a dozen 
yards more, tries to grasp at one of the lamp-posts, and then 
falls weightily to the ground. 

“ Hallo ! I say, Brown, what’s that ?” says a vulgar-looking 
man, who, with his friend, has a moment before emerged round 
the comer from the Hungerford Stairs, and who has heard the 
heavy fall, made to sound heavier by the stillness of the night. 
They both advance towards the spot where, prostrate, lies a 
human form ; his face is downwards on the pavement, and 
Brown and his friend in a moment are alive with energy to 
assist the stranger. 

“This is not a night for so fine a gentleman to he out, is 
it ?” said Brown, in a low voice. And raising the fallen man. 
he placed his head upon his own knee, and the lamp-light fell 
upon his features. 

His dark hair was soaked with rain and weighed down by 
the heavy water from each side of his pale forehead ; the eyes 
were closed as if in death, and the perfectly-formed mouth 
partly open, showing the teeth firm set within. The fall had 
made a deep cut across the temple, and the blood trickled 
slowly over the beautiful face of the miserable man, making 
the features look more marble from the contrast. 

“ What shall we do with him ?” says Brown, contemplating 
the face, which was to all appearance dead ; “he is a good* 
looking fellow, anyhow.” 


Henry Lyle. 


363 


“ Or has been,” rejoined the other ; “ for I fancy he will 
never make love again.’’ 

“ He is not dead, though.” said Brown, pointing to the still 
running blood. And, taking out a bright-coloured pocket-hand- 
kerchief, he tenderly wiped the stranger’s forehead. “ We had 
best take him home, hadn’t we ? There ain’t a cab, I sup- 
pose, anywhere near. Couldn’t you run after one, old fellow ?” 
he continued, to his companion ; “ I’ll stay with the gentleman 
here.” 

Watson disappeared into Cockspur-street in search of a cab, 
and the kind-hearted Brown, now thoroughly roused, sought 
eagerly to find in his charge some remaining signs of life. He 
wrung his hair from the rain which had filled it, for his hat 
had been off some time and was nowhere to be found ; and 
tried again to wipe his face dry. It had now ceased raining, 
and the clouds drifted fast across the sky, occasionally revealing 
for a moment the bright moon, which seemed to look inquisi- 
tively from between them at what had come to pass below. 
The stranger suddenly gave a deep sigh, and Brown could not 
refrain from saying aloud, “ Bravo !” 

“ Oh, my God, forgive me !” said the fallen man, low and 
solemnly. And opening his eyes, he looked upwards for a 
moment in the face of Brown, and tried to raise himself from 
off his knee. 

“Come, come,” said the man, kindly, “they’ve gone to 
fetch you a cab, and you’ll be all right in a moment.” 

A hopeless look came across the stranger’s face : he sank his 
head down again, closed his eyes, and was once more insensible. 


364 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Now, then,” said Watson, as he drove up by the side of 
the cabman, “ Brown, bring the gentleman.” 

“ Come you and help, then, can’t you, stupid ?” replied 
Brown ; and as Watson assisted to raise the stranger, “ he was 
alive a minute ago, but I am afraid he is dead again. I never 
did see a man so weak. A fine fellow, too,” he continued, as 
they lifted him into the carriage. 

“ Where to ?” said the cabman. 

Brown took off his hat in order to scratch his head. “ Where 
to ?” said he, somewhat fiercely, looking at Watson. 

Watson looked towards the stranger, as if to read in his 
inanimate face an answer. At length he said, “ Maybe he has 
a card.” 

“ Of course,” said Brown ; “ you stupid dolt not to have 
given that a thought before. I’ll look in the gentleman’s 
pocket.” 

There was a card-case, but no address. Simply the name, 
“ Mr. Yere.” Brown scratched his head again. 

“ Better go to the next hotel, perhaps,” suggested Watson. 

“ Of course,” said his friend, “ of course we had. The 
Golden Cross.” 

The cab was at the door in a few seconds, and Yere was 
carried out into the entrance-hall, stared at and criticised by 
all the waiters. 

“ It’s Yere,” said one, seeing that he was insensible, and in 
his upstart impertinence dropping the usual respect. “ Only 
to think what’s he been a doing ?” 

But such conjectures were soon put a stop to. Women were 


Henry Lyle. 


365 


there, pitying the poor, dear young gentleman, and pitying 
practically, for they made way for him to he carried up-stairs, 
and in a short time he was placed carefully upon a bed, whilst 
the landlord sent off for a surgeon. 

Vere was in a high fever, and for many hours was delirious ; 
and in his madness his ravings were fearful, terrifying even the 
kind nurse who sat beside his bed, accustomed as she was to 
scenes of horror, disease, and death. He told of years of sin 
and iniquity, accompanied with expressions of such remorse as 
wrung the heart to listen to ; and with his scenes of evil his 
highly-cultivated mind mingled so much of poetry and beauty 
as added, by the sympathy it awoke, to the terrors of his delin- 
eation. But delirium is short-lived, and Vere again opened his 
eyes to reason, after a short sleep, and weakly tried to raise 
himself from the pillow and look around the room in which he 
lay. The nurse came quickly to his bedside, 

“ There, there, dear, go to sleep, do ; or is there anything I 
can fetch you, sir ?” 

Vere looked at her uneasily, as if he scarcely comprehended 
what' she said, and sank his head down again upon the pillow 


3G6 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


That evening, as Augusta was sitting by the couch of hel 
husband, a small note was put into her hands by the maid- 
servant. 

“ Who left it ?” inquired she. 

“A boy, who said he was from the Golden Cross Hotel, 
ma’am : there is no answer.” 

Augusta opened it, unable to recognize the handwriting 
No wonder, even had it once been familiar to her. The inside 
was as illegibly written as the address, as if the hand had 
trembled greatly — only this : 

“ Come to me, for pity’s sake. I am at the Golden Cross, 
and have been very ill. 

“Yours, &c., A. Vere.” 


There was something affecting in the brevity of the note and 


Henry Lyle. 


367 


the indisputable token of weakness shown in the handwriting 

O’ 

and the tears started to Augusta Lyle’s eyes as she read it. 

“ That he should come to this,” she ejaculated. 

“ What is it, love ?” asked Lyle. 

“ It is a note from Mr. Yere,” said Augusta, placing it in 
her husband’s hand. “ I must go to him at once.” 

“ You cannot go alone, Augusta, at this time of night, and 
to such a public hotel as that.” 

She looked at him half reproachfully. “And Mr. Vere, 
Henry ? Ought I to refuse ?” 

“Take the servant with you,” said Lyle. 

“ And leave you alone ? Ho ; I will go by myself, may I 
not ? Look at his note again, Henry, dear.” 

“ Go ; God bless you !” said Lyle. “ You are right.” 

It was discomfort certainly, and unlike what Augusta had 
been used to, to have to drive alone in a cab to the Golden 
Cross ; to enter the vestibule, evidently a gazing-stock to, ap- 
parently, thousands of waiters, all ready to answer at once any 
question with an impertinent half-smile upon their faces when 
Augusta inquired for Mr. Yore ; to feel that eyes were fixed 
upon her, although she never looked towards their possessors ; 
to have to ask to be shown to the sick-room of a single man ; 
to hear the name of Yere repeated in various voices, but 
always with a tone of surprise ; and have a murmur of won- 
derment raised at her request. Augusta’s cheek burned at the 
imputation the murmur seemed to imply, but she steadily went 
through with what she had determined to do. The words of 
Vere’s note recurred to her mind : “ Come to me for pity’s sake ; 


368 


Henry Lyle. 


I am very ill and although her heart trembled as she fol- 
lowed where a woman led the way, and an indignant flush for 
a moment rose to her brow as the chambermaid showed her 
which was the door without a word, as if she looked upon her 
as inferior in virtue to herself, her calmness did not desert her ; 
but quietly thanking the woman, and dismissing her, she 
opened the door softly, and entered where Yere lay. 

His eyes were closed, nor did he hear her until she stood 
beside him and laid her hand on his, which struck a pain to 
her heart by its intense fever. Oh, what a change from what 
he used to be ! His eyes were unnaturally bright from fever, 
and the hectic spots upon his cheeks burned painfully. The 
features were unchanged, but the change was in the expres- 
sion : the haughty curl of the upper lip was smoothed, and the 
proud glances were exchanged for a fixed looked of sorrow. 

Yere turned his eyes quickly towards her. 

“Is that you, Augusta? Have you come to me at my 
asking ? I scarcely hoped you would ; but it is like yourself.” 

He sat up with some difficulty, and continued : 

“It is a long time since we have met, and many things 
have passed since then. I count the time by events, not 
months. I have been a reckless man, but in all my reckless- 
ness, Augusta, I have ever loved you — ay, loved you,” he 
added, seeing a slight change in her expression, “ as well as a 
villain could love ; but do not fear that it is to make professions 
of love to you that I wished to see you : no, Augusta, such 
things have passed with me. Do you recollect long ago telling 
me I was on the road to misery ? You were not right, I was 


Henry Lyle. 


369 


then on the road of misery. I have never been a happy man 
— never since those thoughts passed away which made me 
hesitate which road to take. Augusta, do you know that I am 
dying ? I do not attend to what others say to me ; I am fully 
aware of it myself ; and how I despise the weakness of my pre- 
tended friend, who would buoy me up with false hopes of life, 
when he knows the whole time, the fool ! that Death has his 
iron hand upon me. How much have such physicians to 
answer for ! But it is not I should speak of other men’s faults 
and follies. Augusta, I always maintained, you are aware, a 
self-made religion, or more strictly speaking, irreligion. Will 
that stand me in stead now, when the unseen world opens so 
little distant on my soul ? Will the * oppositions of science, 
falsely so called,’ be available to me before a Divine tribunal?” 

“ But, Arthur Yere ” 

“ Oh, call me Arthur, Augusta : that is kind in you. I have 
been lately nought but Yere to every one, and Yere is a man 
whom now I execrate. When I was a child I was called Ar- 
thur ; my poor mother used to love the name, and it seems to 
bring back some thoughts of innocence.” 

“ Oh, if you could be a child again !” said she. 

“ Ah, he told me so ; that I must become a child, and learn 
as a child : and my proud spirit hated him for the weirds.” 

Augusta shuddered. 

“ X wished to see you once again, Augusta,” resumed Yere, 
“for I shall never see you more : we went different roads in this 
life, and we shall still go opposite ways in the life to come. You 
see, I have a sense of justice ; I know what I deserve. When 


370 


Henry Lyle. 


you bid adieu to me, it will be a last, eternal farewell. What ! 
can it be possible that I should so affect you ? Dear, dear 
girl !” said Vere, slightly trembling, as Augusta, convulsed with 
grief, flung herself on her knees beside the bed. “ Augusta,” 
continued he, solemnly, “ do not pray for me; I have not for 
years breathed a prayer : do not dare to utter my foul name 
before Heavens throne ; it would pollute the air which God and 
angels breathe ; and it will be useless. No, it is too late, now.” 

“ Oh no, no, Arthur Yere ; do not you dare say thus : it is 
never, it can never be too late. Oh ! that you would pray for 
yourself — that you would believe yourself, that even at the last 
hour those who come to Him, He will in no wise cast out.” 

“ Dear little girl !” said Yere, stroking her head with his 
burning hand. “ Augusta, for the first time for years I read 
the bible for its own sake, not for the sake of opposing it, and 
when I opened it these words were nearest me : ‘ And if ye 
have been unfaithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will 
commit to your trust the true riches !’ It was a just sentence. 
What were my earthly talents, and what their produce ? Had 
I simply hid my Lord’s money, and at His coming given Him 
but his own ! — but there is no pre-example of my case. Au- 
gusta, I would change my lot at this present moment with the 
poorest wretch on earth who had not desecrated all God’s gifts, as 
I have. Oh ! why did the Almighty make me differ from another, 
in giving me powers to exalt me in my own mind ? — why had 
I such unbounded capacity for evil ? — why was not I ?” 

“ Hush, hush ! All God’s gifts are good, and your powers 
were of God’s best gifts ; you err in taking to your case one 


Henry Lyle. 


371 


sentence only of the Scriptures. You are still judging as you 
used to judge, and wresting the passage to your own ” 

“ Destruction ! Yes, Augusta, that is the word.” 

“You have very often, formerly, Arthur, heard the text, 
* Though your sins he as scarlet, they shall be white as snow ; 
though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool V ” 

“ Yes, and now your words sound to me like a very lovely 
song by one who hath a pleasant voice.” 

“ They are not words of mine,” said Augusta. 

“ I know it ; bu‘t, Augusta, my head is so filled with human 
and false philosophies and vain deceits, that my thoughts check 
any inroads of the truth. I cannot now believe, although I 
know it to he truth. The arguments I now feel to be fallacies 
will rise in my mind, where they have so long domineered, and 
occupy my head even against my will.” 

“ But those of God are not arguments of the head, hut of 
the heart ; and I know that you have yourself believed that 
even the illusions of the heart must gain the mastery over mere 
head-knowledge.” 

“ Have I, Augusta ? 1 am glad of that.” He paused for a 

few moments, and then rejoined, 

“ Augusta, do you think that your — your husband would see 
me for a moment ?” 

“I am quite sure that nothing would give Lyle greater 
pleasure than to come to you, if he could be of any service ; 
but oh, Mr. Yere !” exclaimed Augusta, bursting into tears, 
“ my Lyle is dying, he is unable to rise from his bed, or he 
would not have let me come alone to-night.” 


372 


Henry Lyle. 


Yere covered his face with his hands, and trembled. 

“ And I shall meet that man before the judgment-seat of 
God ! "Why does he haunt me always, even into eternity ?” 
said he, wildly, and looking suddenly at her with his eyes 
blazing. He caught her glance full of tears, and his fury 
changed in a moment. 

“Is it possible ?” he asked, “ that he would have come to 
me had he been able ; that he would look at me with any 
feeling but that of horror ? Is it with his knowledge that you 
are here at this moment ?” 

“ I showed him your note.” 

“ With his approval ?” asked Yere. 

“ Certainly ; he would approve of all that is right.” 

“ Augusta, do you recollect when I wished you to be my 
wife ?” — the tears fell fast from Augusta’s eyes; — “ how heart- 
ily should you thank Heaven that you were spared that curse ! 
I thought I could have devoted myself to a wife, but devotion 
was not in my nature. Hating Lyle as I did, I yet esteemed 
you a happy woman when you married him ; for at my worst 
I could admire virtue, although I could not imitate, and while 
I ridiculed Lyle and named his excellence pretended, many a 
time a sigh of regret has surprised me, when in a reverie I 
have recollected his words and actions running side by side ; 
and although I have cursed him in my heart — do not shudder, 
Augusta ; Heaven sends back bad men’s curses on their own 
heads — I have envied him his moral dignity. Bless Heaven 
for the love of a good man, and that you have been preserved 
from attaching yourself to a villain ! Are not these strango 


Henry Lyle. 


373 


words to come from me?” he asked, moving about restlessly 
as he spoke. 

Augusta felt his hand : his pulse was raging with excite- 
ment, although he had appeared calm ; and she was alarmed. 

“ I had better leave you now : I will come again to-morrow ; 
indeed, you must try to lie still,” said she. 

“And Lyle? Tell him ” said Yere; “no, tell him all 

you have seen to-day, and say that he is avenged.” 

Augusta shook her head sadly. 

“ Is he really dying ?” asked Yere, with a very different tone 
to that he had used, when in Florence he spoke on the same 
subject. 

“ He was wounded accidentally while in Florence,” said 
Augusta ; “ and the effects of that accident have counteracted 
all the progress he had made.” 

“ Wounded ?” asked Yere, with animation : “ how ? — 
when ?” 

“In defending an Englishman from the attack of a foreigner 
in the streets of Florence, one night,” answered Augusta, 
almost mechanically. 

“ The Englishman ! Who was it ? Tell me,” said he. 

“ Lyle never told me his name ; but he said he recognized 
him, before his interference. Some former acquaintance, I 
suppose ; he has many.” 

“ Leave me now, Augusta,” said Yere. 

“Go back to your husband, and tell him I shall meet him 
before long : for a short time, only to part for ever. Go ; I 
will not keep you from him longer.” 


374 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER LX. 


Augusta was unconscious of anything around her, of the 
looks and tones which had annoyed her on her entrance, as she 
left the Golden Cross Hotel. Her mind was full only of the 
scene she had quitted, and it was not until she again reached 
her husband’s presence that she seemed able to realize what 
had taken place. There, by his bedside, she knelt, and at 
times, almost overcome by tears, she repeated to him, word for 
word, the harrowing account of Vere’s distress ; and then, as 
the contrast would suggest itself to her as she glanced at the 
face of Lyle, now grown almost angelic as the stamp of immor- 
tality became more deeply impressed upon his features, she 
would throw her arms around him, and aloud bless God who 
had given her, for however short a time, such a heart to love 
her. Lyle was considerably weaker on the following morning, 
but he strove to conceal the weakness from Augusta, and 
urged her to go again to Yere, as he had so earnestly desired it. 


Henry Lyle. 


375 


Augusta found him still excited, although less strong than 
on the previous night. The nurse was evidently annoyed at 
Augusta’s entrance ; but Yere overheard her voice demanding 
admittance, and called out in a loud and impatient tone that 
she should come in. 

“ Well !” said he, as she entered, as if taking up the inter- 
view where it had ceased the night before, “ did you tell him 
what I said ?” 

“Yes, everything ; he is very sorry to hear you are ill.” 

“ Sorry !” echoed Yere, rather contemptuously ; “a man is 
not sorry to hear of the death of one who has injured him, and 
would have injured him more had he been able : and have 
you learnt the name of the Englishman w T hom Lyle so quixot- 
ically defended, and got his own death through doing so ?” 

“ I have asked him,” answered Augusta ; “ you know it, 
Mr. Yere.” 

“ And has he never regretted it?” asked the other — “has 
he never cursed the cause of his death ?” 

“ Hush, hush !” said Augusta, painfully. “ How fearfully 
you talk ! Christians do not curse their fellow-creatures. I 
have told you that Harry has never mentioned even to me, 
until now, your name as the cause.” 

“Augusta,” asked Yere, suddenly changing his tone, “is 
this Christianity ? Would to God, then, I were a Christian !” 

Augusta was affected, yet tried to point him to the source 
of Christianity. 

“ It is useless — useless,” said Yere, sadly ; “ I told you yes- 
terday, that it is all over with me in this world, and in the 


376 


Henry Lyle. 


next. I am aware of, and can appreciate the justice of my 
condemnation. I have deserved hell, and I shall find it.” 

“We have all deserved hell; but Heaven offers mercy as 
well as justice, Mr. Yere,” urged Augusta. 

“ Not to those who have mocked at mercy’s offers. No, 
Augusta, do not try to combat my conception of the justice of 
God. He could not do otherwise than damn me, if He will 
act consistently with His own word. ‘ The soul that sinneth, 
it shall die.’ ” 

“ Oh ! Arthur Yere, do not so calmly speak of such a fear- 
ful prospect. Can you thus look forward to damnation, and 
not utter a cry to Heaven for help ?” 

Yere smiled faintly. “ My dear girl,” said he, “ there is a 
calmness which arises from hopelessness, from despair.” 

“ And you may die, and never seek forgiveness.” 

“ Even so, Gussy : I will not insult my Maker further. He 
knows I have done so during my lifetime sufficiently.” 

“ Oh, Arthur, you mistake ; indeed, you are in fatal error. Is 
a demand for mercy and pardon an insult?” exclaimed Augusta. 

“But how could I ask mercy?” said he, sternly. “What 
plea can I make ?” 

“ You see the necessity of a plea ?” she asked. 

“ Would you have me simply ask for mercy’s sake, when I 
have despised mercy ?” said Yere. 

“No, not for mercy’s sake.” 

“ For my virtue’s sake, perhaps ?” said Yere, sarcastically. 

“ Neither for that : but there are merits for whose sake you 
may ask. and will find mercy. Had we no Saviour ” 


Henry Lyle. 


377 


“ Hush, hush !” said Yere, quickly, an expression of awe 
coming over his features. “ Do not Augusta, mention in my 
polluted presence that sacred name, which I have denied, yes 
crucified afresh,” said he writhing mentally, “and put to 
an open shame.” 

“ Yet we must speak of Him, and now, as the last act, per- 
haps, of your life, honour His name by depending on Him as 
proof of your sorrow for your life of dishonour. Do you believe, 
Arthur Yere, that the Saviour is God ?” 

“I do now, Augusta. I cannot help believing it. I am 
forced to receive now, even against my will, all that I before 
disputed and thought I had so strengthened my mind against.” 

“ And you believe in the Almighty’s justice ?” 

“ Most assuredly. You know I do ; and I expect to meet 
with it.” 

“ Would it be just to break His own promise ? Would it be 
like Himself?” 

“ No, no : and yet ” 

“ Yet what ?” asked Augusta. 

“ Augusta you do not know what I have been. You do not 
know the degradation and sin to which I have stooped. I am 
utterly helpless.” 

“ That is the first step on the road to heaven, that acknowl- 
edgement of yours. Being a sinner is your plea for mercy, and 
His righteousness your surety of acceptance. He, for His part, is 
willing to save. Will not you be willing to accept the salvation ?” 

“ Now, look you, Augusta,” exclaimed Yere ; “do you re- 
member to what kind of man you are speaking ? Can vou 


378 


Henry Lyle. 


imagine for a moment that one may scoff at all these things 
during a lifetime, and when death is staring you in the face, go 
easily to heaven by simply crying out that you are sorry ?” 

“ But, Yere, it is a fearful thing to question God’s mercy.” 

“ So it is. I have lived a life of such fearfulness, however ; 
and now, upon my death-bed, what have I ? Augusta, look at 
me,” said he, in a burst of almost frenzy ; look what I have 
come to. Where is the flattery, where the friends of former 
days ? I killed my mother by my ingratitude ; and am helpless, 
left to the care of strangers, I who thought I might have led 
mankind. What avails it know that I had talents when my 
human understanding will not save me ? What that I had 
beauty ? Will beauty be flattered in the grave ? Can worldly 
applause and public fame plead for me hereafter ? I have had 
gifts more than many, but each gift has by me been turned 
into an occasion of sin, and now I am left within the grasp of 
death, naked and open to my great enemy. Oh, Augusta, that 
I could tell the whole world to flee self-reliance ; that I could 
tell the world that there is nothing of theirs can avail upon a 
dying bed— nothing. Tell them, as I would tell them did I 
live, that all the honours of this world are valueless, the adu- 
lation of men soul-sickening, when such a time as this is come. 
They whom the world calls happy have nothing to cling to on 
a dying bed.” 

“ Nothing of this life, Arthur Yere; but they have the prom- 
ise of the Gospel, trust in their Saviour,” Augusta replied. 

“ Trust ! That is a beautiful word,” said Yere, with an 
effort, the sound trembling on his lips ; and the tears, starting 


Henry Lyle. 


STS 


to his eyes, fell upon the hand of Augusta. He smiled sadly, 
saying, “ It is a long time since I have shed tears ; I thought 
I had forgotten how to weep.” 

Augusta rose, as the nurse knocked at the door. 

“ You are not going ?” said Yere, anxiously. 

“ I must : b shall make you more ill if I stay too long with 
you. And my Lyle ?” said Augusta, as the recollection of his 
state recurred to her. And her tears fell fast at the mention 
of his name. 

“ Ay, true : go to your Lyle. It would be unjust indeed 
that such as I should keep you from him. Go to your Lyle, 
and speak to him of such things as you have told me ; they 
will fall on more attentive ears.” 

“ Oh ! Arthur Yere, if you would hut believe them !” urged 
Augusta. 

He laughed. “ I do believe them, every one : I might be 
less wretched if I did not. A man on his death-bed, Augusta, 
cannot reject these things ; he must believe with a horrifying 
faith, as if he were already a devil. Go to your Lyle, and 
take my thanks with you for coming to me. You will never 
see me again, Gussy, so good-by for ever.” 

She would have spoken again, have reiterated the argu- 
ment she had used, but her voice failed her, and throwing her- 
self on her knees by his bed-side, she sobbed out an impetuous 
prayer for the reckless man. He patted her on the head as 
she knelt, called her a good little girl, laughed bitterly, and 
told her to go back to her Lyle again. And that evening a 
message was sent her that he was dead. 


380 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER LXI. 


Augusta returned to her Lyle, and under the soft influence 
of his gentle tones and soothing words, the horror of the late 
scene she had witnessed wore away. Then, and not until then, 
she observed his increased illness, and the thought of the near- 
ness of their parting was forced upon her ; not with violent and 
impetuous grief, or any despairing eloquence, hut with the 
quiet regret which had been increasing day by day, as the 
object of it endeared himself more to her heart, and grew 
more heavenly as he neared the confines of the earth. Things 
seen and present grew to look like distant and detached 
objects, and as if only eternity were real ; that this world was 
a dream, and a very short one, from which we all soon shall 
wake to enter really upon life. 

One evening, when the sun had set and twilight was draw- 
ing in, the curtains being yet undrawn and the room unlighted 
by any artificial means, Augusta laid aside the Book she had 


Henry Lyle. 


381 


been reading aloud, and drew near to her husband. The last 
words of the chapter still sounded in their ears : “ And to you 
that fear my name, shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with 
healing in His wings.” 

“ Sing to me, Gussy,” said Lyle, presently. 

She fetched her guitar and sang the songs which he had 
always loved so much, he, as always, listening almost breath- 
lessly to the air, and showing by the mutability of his features 
every phase of emotion with which he was touched. She 
ceased, and he spoke in a low voice : 

“ Augusta, do you remember the night, years ago, when 
first you sang to me ?” 

She bowed her head, but did not answer. 

“ Until then I had had no Home. In childhood I met with 
harshness, and the affections with which my breast was over- 
flowing were thrown back forcibly upon my own heart. I 
struggled as a child, not alone with outward circumstances, 
but with inward grief, and was made, in feeling, a man before 
my time. I learnt to look upon the world as one to be fought 
with, and not sympathized with. I was fast becoming an 
individual in society, not one of the mass. Augusta, my 
Gussy, before I met with you, I was rapidly growing a stranger 
towards others, and learnt to preach better, every day, as 1 
practised less humanly. 

“ I had been rebuffed, my pride had been continually hurt, 
and I was preparing to defy the world. 

“ It was an unmanly, but more, an unchristian mind, in 
which I lived for some years, until the grace and providence 


382 


Henry Lyle. 


of God taught me to feel where before I had only moralized. 
I began to have some appreciation of the true meaning of 
Home (that name which I had always loved, but, unhappily 
for me, as a name only. Nothing ruins a man like the crush- 
ing of all these feelings early in life) as my heart learnt to 
throb with the hearts of others. 

No man is for himself alone : he cannot b®. 

When I saw you, my Augusta, all these feelings were rife 
within my bosom, and I think I may dare to say that the heart 
I offered you was the honest heart of a man, not of a machine 
made in man’s image. 

“ How my heart yearned for true sympathy with one heart 
in return for mine, even at this moment I vividly remember ; 
yet, had not God blessed me with your love, do not think I 
should have consumed my days as a broken-do^ n and disap- 
pointed man, reckless of the future and irrespective of the pass- 
ing time. I had then, I trust, learnt to be a man, and deeply 
as such a rejection, which for some months I considered as 
given tacitly on your part, wounded, and almost, for the time, 
broke my heart, I formed but one of the many disappointed 
beings of the world, all demanding sympathy, and all demand 
ing it rightfully, and accrediting it on my part. 

“ All the world is creditor to the heart, Gussy. 

Would you have loved me better had I now told you that 
I should have been sunk in despair at your rejection?” he 
asked, fondly putting his arm round her. 

“ Nothing could make me love you better, Henry. If it 
could be so, it might be such a confession as the one you have 


Henry Lyle. 


383 


just made, proving yourself, as always, nature’s nobleman.” 

Hush, hush, you silly girl,” said he, smiling, and then 
resumed : 

“ When I loved you, Augusta, I found my earthly Home in 
perfection, and it has continued thus perfect always, has it not, 
dearest? You have been Augusta to me, in raising my 
low-born thoughts to nobleness and greatness. You have been 
Augusta in your self-devotion and love, from the first moment 
you were mine.” 

“I!” said she, in astonishment at his words. “You have 
been my guide, my counsellor, my heaven-director, never I 
yours. Your love misleads you, my Lyle. You magnify me 
through the lens of your own partiality. I have been your 
pupil always. Would to God I might be so to the end !” 

“And you will still be Augusta , will you not?” said he, 
waiving her objection. “ When we have parted here, you 
will still strive nobly above this present life — you will still 
aspire to the native regions of the soul, and struggle for the 
heavenliness of heaven’s children ?” 

“ I would be anything you say ; but oh, my Lyle, what 
shall I be when we have parted — when the prop, the stay is 
taken from me ?” 

“ The prop, the stay, Augusta ?” he asked, almost sternly. 
“ J)o we then rely upon transient things ? Is it I whom you 
have made your god ?” 

“ I was wrong, Henry.” 

God bless you, dear ! You remember the first evening 
you sang to me ; do you recollect the night your father died ? 


384 


Henry Lyle. 


Sing to me again, Gussy. It may be the last time I shall 
ever hear you.” 

She again took her guitar and sang, as of old, the old song, 
“ Home, sweet Home !” clearly and distinctly, with none of 
the nervous trembling which she had felt the night her father 
died, but with the same deep pathos of that evening. 

There is a deeper meaning in the song than the mere words 
at the first hearing would convey. 

It seemed to Augusta as if she could not have shed tears 
this night. There was an unnatural stillness about all things, 
and no sound interrupted the tones of her husband’s sweet and 
plaintive voice, as she listened to them, feeling as if she could 
so listen for hours. 

He asked her to light the lamp which hung above the easel, 
where the yet unfinished painting he had been occupied upon 
was standing. 

Lamplight is not favourable to a painting, as we know ; but 
the sudden and unnatural brilliancy shone direct upon the 
canvas, and lighted up a subject, a thousand times repeated it 
is true, but always beautiful, throwing the darks into deeper 
shadow, and catching the bright lights of the foreground. 

It was a landscape. The deep belt of trees which formed 
the side threw out the silver stream of the river which ran in 
the foreground, gently reflecting every shadow, rippling play- 
fully, as if at times forgetful that the night was coming on. 
All was so serenely peaceful, that the picture almost spoke its 
own tale of the hope and faith which had animated the heart 
of the painter, flooded completely, and merging into that flood 


Henry Lyle. 


385 


every lesser light, by the broad, glorious golden of the sunset, 
which cast back into temporary neglect all the minor objects 
of the scene. And yet the life-objects of the front, which after 
a time demanded the attention, showed that even in the last 
hour the daily circumstances of life yet held their interest. 

The painting was nearly finished, and as Augusta, at her 
husband’s desire, lighted the lamp above it, Lyle turned his 
eyes upon his last efforts in the art he had loved so much, and 
scrutinized it closely. The implements of his work were near 
the easel, and to the almost fearful astonishment of his wife, 
the dying man rose from the couch, from which he had not 
risen for many days, and with strength unnatural and forced, 
walked towards the picture. 

His face was flushed with excitement, his eyes dilated and 
painfully brilliant, while his long light hair hung down about 
his shoulders, pushed back at the temples, and curling like a 
crown over his head. He laid one of his fragile hands upon 
the easel, and turned his face to her. 

“ Augusta,” said he — and years afterwards the tones of his 
voice rang in her ears — “ all these things are passing from me, 
and whither would the brightness of my life’s stream be, had 
not I the hope of the everlasting Dawn of Day, when the Sun 
of Righteousness shall arise to me with healing on His wings?” 
— His voice was clear and strong, and his action beautiful, as 
she gazed at him with an earnestness painful to behold. 

He staggered, and caught at the easel, but recollecting him- 
self, tottered back to the couch from whence he had risen, and 

sat down. His face became ashy pale, and Augusta took his 

17 


386 


Henry Lyle. 


hands and kissed them ; she smoothed his hair from off his 
forehead, and fondled him as if he had been a child, and as 
he looked up in her face trustingly, and from thence to heaven 
— for he vainly attempted to form a prayer or blessing into 
words — he died. 


Henry Lyle 


397 


CHAPTER LXII. 


Augusta saw at once what had taken place, but she was 
yet undismayed. She laid his head upon her bosom for a few 
moments, repeatedly kissing the curling hair ; she pressed her 
lips to the closed eyes, those gentle eyes which had never 
looked at her except in love, and then laying his head down 
softly on the pillow of the bed, she knelt beside the corpse and 
with one of its hands between her own, she prayed as she had 
never ‘prayed before. 

Affliction makes us weep and cry to God ; anxiety will 
almost wrestle with the Almighty ; gratitude will, or should, 
send forth tear-drawing praises and thanksgivings. In all 
these things we pray, but yet God is in heaven and we on 
earth ; but here, with God’s agent visibly working in her pres- 
ence, with the last looks of love of God’s property still on her 
eyes, realizing in her own person and in his God’s everlasting 
promises, Augusta prayed as she never had prayed — as it 
wore, holding the garments of her Lord. 


333 


Henry Lyle. 


It seemed as if there was no sorrow in her prayer. Thanks- 
giving was there — thanks for the time he had been hers, and 
an implication of gratitude that now he was God’s only. Was 
this unnatural in Augusta ? You are right : it was not nature 
which so taught her, it was grace. 

She rose and looked at his face attentively, and in a quiet 
voice addressed him : 

“ Adieu, my beautiful, my best. Oh, my Lyle ! how shall 
I wander on without you ? How shall I miss the gentle guid- 
ance of that sweet voice, the looks of those dear eyes ! I shall 
be very sad without you, beloved of my soul, with nought re- 
maining but your memory, and the sweet philosophy of those 
precepts indelibly impressed upon my heart. Do you think of 
me even now, my Lyle ? Will you think of me often, until 
we meet again, and will you ever wish that that meeting may 
be speedy ?” 

A few tears she shed, involuntary tears, being unaware her- 
self that they fell from her eyes, as she gazed at his calm face 
with the admiration of a poet as well as the affection of a 
wife. 

The landlady of the house, on the following morning, wept 
profusely when she saw the corpse of Lyle, looking, as she 
said, “ so easy and lovely,” and gazed reproachfully at Augusta 
when she saw her composed, and without tears in her eyes. 

* * * * # # 

Yere’s body was laid in its last bed, amongst the dead, 
where all things are forgotten. He had relations, and many 
of them attended his funeral as a mark of respect for the 


Henry Lyle. 


38S 


family name, although he had quarrelled with the most part of 
them during his public career, and had had, of late, very little 
intercourse with any one of them. A very expensive monu- 
ment was erected to his memory. 

“ How shocking !” said the Miss Delavilles, when they read 
in the newspapers that Arthur Yere was dead. 

“ How shocking !” exclaimed they also when Mrs. Seymour 
told them of the death of Henry Lyle ; and that lady’s lips 
parted involuntarily as if about to combat such a word being 
used in reference to the transition Lyle had made, but the Miss 
Delavilles looked unconvincible and properly horrified, and she 
forbore remark. 

* * # # # 

Upon opening Yere’s will, he was found to have left all his 
property, which was considerable, to Augusta Lyle. 

“ There was a time,” said Augusta, upon hearing the fact, 
“ when such an acquisition would have been hailed with joy ; 
but now ” 

Still, dear Augusta, the wealth sent you will carry a blessing 
with it. It will be the means of soothing the hours of many 
here, the means of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and 
sheltering the houseless, will it not be the aid of all those noble 
efforts of your heart to follow in the footsteps which your 
beloved Lyle pointed out, and which were first trod by the 
Great Master of Charity ? 

* # # * * 

“ Ah, Yere was a lucky fellow,” observed Sir William S . 

“ He had legacies from everybody : I never knew a fellow 


390 


Henry Lyle. 


with such luck : I believe people used to leave him money for 
his handsome face. I wish, I’m sure, they would do the same 
for me. Don’t laugh, Miss Bella ; I have been a good-looking 
man in my day, I can assure you.” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” replied the lady. "I am sure any one 
can see that, and not such a long day off.” 

“ I declare,” continued Sir William S , “ it makes one 

feel disposed to moralize — a thing I am not much addicted to — 
to hear of one fellow dying immensely rich, and another, just at 
the same time, as Lyle, having had to work all his life, and 
then, after all*, to die poor — why one man should have every- 
thing, and another nothing.” 

“ Why indeed !” ejaculated Miss Bella DelaviileJ 

“ However,” continued the baronet, “ I know that Vere has 
left everything almost to Mrs. Lyle. It seems very odd : 
rather queer, doesn’t it — eh?” 

The Miss Delavilles said it was unaccountable, and they 
couldn’t understand it, and that things were very sad, and that 
Mrs. Lyle ought to congratulate herself, they were 6ure ; and 
meanwhile Mrs. Lyle was tossing and raging with fever. 

Yes, the excitement and long-protracted suspense and trial 
of nerves and strength were taking effect now. There was 
nothing more to be done ; no longer Lyle to be waited on, to be 
borne up for ; no longer need tears be checked and agony con- 
cealed. Lyle was gone ; the grave had received his body, and 
nothing remained here visible to Augusta of her love but the 
curling light hair which she had taken from his head and now 
wore in her bosoin. 


Henry Lyle. 


391 


She did not know that she was no longer in the house where 
Lyle had died ; that Mrs. Seymour had taken her home with 
her immediately after the funeral, that the old scenes and 
familiar objects should not constantly keep alive the presence 
of her grief. Still she thought she w f as with Henry Lyle, sit- 
ting by his bedside, talking to him, thinking only of his w’ants, 
listening to that voice which she should never hear again this 
side the grave. 

It seemed wonderful, to look at Augusta’s slight little figure 
and w r orn-out frame — palpable now, when all interest was con- 
centrated upon her — how that girl could ever have exerted her- 
self as she had done. Unwearying, unflinching, nothing had 
been too hard, no effort too great. She had endured ail patiently, 
fought with all bravely ; but now it was over, and she was but 
a fragile, helpless little thing, raving always of Lyle, and ut- 
terly unconscious of all around her. 

Mrs. Seymour thought of the days when Augusta had been 
a young girl at her father’s house, singing, laughing, talking 
more nonsense than sense, eagerly persuing every trifle, moved 
by every circumstance to more emotion than the occasion 
seemed to require, apparently volatile, but recalled by a kind 
word in a moment to better things, or by a harsh, impertinent 
one, made to flush with resentment. 

Do we go too far in saying that such are the materials of 
noble character ? 


392 


Henry Lyle. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 


There was rather a commotion in Clarence and the adjoin* 
ing courts and lanes. Clarence-court was where the brothers 
Carter, and various other of Lyle’s friends lived, and was a 
place which had been well known to Henry Lyle. 

It was late in the autumn evening, some hours after the 
men had returned from their work, but Richard Carter had 
been out again to inquire after Henry Lyle. It was upon his 
return that the commotion took place. 

“Well, Dick?” said inquiringly, Williams, “the model 
cottager,” as Augusta had styled him, as Carter passed the 
door of his house. 

Richard stopped his course, and leant against the door-post 
of William’s cottage, and his doing so was the signal for the 
several individuals loitering about the court to draw near, and 
listen to what was being said. 

“ He’s gone !” said Richard Carter, sadly ; and for some 
moments after the announcement, no one spoke. 

Meanwhile, Willy Benson, in company with his instructor, 


Henry Lyle. 


393 


Bertram, came near to inquire also. Bertram did not live in 
the same neighbourhood, but came often to ask of the brothers 
Carter news of Lyle. 

“ Well,” said he, in his turn, not having heard the answer 
which had produced so complete a silence for a time, “ how’s 
Mr. Lyle?” 

“ Better than ever he was before,” replied Carter ; “ gone to 
his Home.” 

Bertram made no answer, but turned aside, and walked 
quickly towards his own house, while his companion stared m 
bewildered grief in the face of Richard Carter. 

“ Not dead !” said he, when he had found his speech. 

“ Yes, dead, my good fellow,” said Carter. “ It is a bad 
piece of news for many of us.” 

Mrs. Williams put her apron to her eyes and went into her 
cottage, and Willy Benson burst into a passionate fit of crying. 

“ He was always so good to me !” he exclaimed. 

“ So many of us might say,” answered Carter. “ There 
are not many like him ; leastways, I have not met with them 
if there are ; but it won’t mend things to fret over them, 
Willy. Better cheer up, and follow after your master.” The 
which speech Carter having delivered philosophically and with 
great calmness, he left the assembled group, and sought the 
house where he and his brother lived. 

“ Well, Dick, my boy ?” was the salutation which met his 
ear upon his entrance. 

Dick well understood the meaning of the question, and as 
before, he replied, 


17 * 


394 


Henry Lyle. 


“ Dead, Bill ! and I am vexed to have to say it.” 

“William Carter’s face fell as he heard the other speak, and 
he was silent for a few moments. Dick rose and shut the door, 
and as he turned again towards the table where his brother sat, 
their eyes met. 

“ This is a bad job, Dick, my good fellow !” said William, 
with his eyes full of tears. 

“ He would have told us not replied Richard, his voice 
visibly trembling. 

The remarks were, perhaps, common-place. They were not 
much educated men ; but the allusion, however awkwardly 
expressed by the one, was understood by the other. 

That evening, Richard and William Carter could not have 
found it in their hearts to cavil at each other. Lyle’s spirit of 
love seemed to hover over the scenes which he in life had 
known. When, later in the evening, William Carter, in 
speaking to his brother, laid his hand upon his arm, the latter 
took the hand in his, and, as if impatiently mastering a sigh, 
exclaimed, 

“ Bill, do you know, I wish I was a better man than 
I am!” 

The Miss Delavilles read the paragraph in the morning paper 
which told of the death of Henry Lyle, and they exclaimed 
again, as they had done before, “ How shocking 1” 

“And how curious, also,” added Miss Bella, “that he should 
die just at the same time as poor dear Mr. Yere ! How dread- 
ful ! for they were so associated with each other.” 

There was an obituary of Yere in the same journal, and a 


Henry Lyle. 


395 


slight sketch of his literary career. Both men were mentioned 
as losses to the circles in which they moved, and the Miss De- 
lavilles felt very sentimental all that day, and spoke some very 
wise sayings to prove their admiration of talent, and the un- 
certainty of sublunary things ; and thenceforth they consti- 
tuted, or attempted to constitute, Mr. B their polar star. 

None spoke of Lyle’s good works ; they were soon forgotten 
by most, yet they followed him ; and the blessing of the poor, 
and of him who was ready to perish, at times surrounded the 
memory of his name in humble streets and vulgar haunts, 
where the Miss Delavilles never came. 

None spoke of Yere’s ill deeds ; for the living are indulgent 
to the dead, however harshly they may judge each other ; and 
in the eyes of man, death is an expiation of private offences at 
least. 

Each was mentioned by his partisans as “ poor,” as it is the 
custom to speak of dead men ; and the Miss Delavilles would 
speak in the same breath of poor Mr. Lyle and poor Mr. Yere, 
without a thought as to the justice of the term. And all 
things went on the same as they had before ; the Miss 

Delavilles still trifled and wasted life ; Sir William S still 

misused it ; all acknowledged, if they thought about it, that 
Henry Lyle had taught and acted better things than they, and 
yet did not stop to consider whether they might not, each one 

of them, have incurred fresh blame and guilt, beoauso they 

■ 

had seen these things and neglected to do them. 


396 


Henry Lyle 


CHAPTER LXIV. 


On the day following Lyle’s funeral, a bright and sunny 
morning, Philip Wilson rushed tumultuously into the presence 
of Mrs. Seymour. 

That lady started from her chair at sight of him, and cord- 
ially returned his embrace. 

“ The Lyles, where are they now ?” inquired the young man, 
as soon as the first excitement had subsided. “ I have not 
seen them : I came first to you to inquire where they live.” 

“They have been abroad,” answered Mrs. Seymour, wishing 
to gain time. 

“ But have they not returned ?” asked Philip. 

“ Yes ; Augusta is with me now : she is with me alone.” 

“ But Henry V 1 

Mrs. Seymour looked him full in the face : she did not know 
what to say : she was no hand at breaking gradually a piece 
of news. 


Henry Lyle. 


397 


V Where is Henry ?” asked Philip again. 

“ Oh, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Seymour, “ you remember 
that Henry Lyle was very ill when last you saw him ?” 

Philip Wilson made no exclamation of surprise, but after 
staring fixedly at Mrs. Seymour for a few minutes, and reading 
in her distressed face a confirmation of his fear, he covered 
his face with his hands, and the tears forced themselves 
through his fingers. 

“ Oh, my poor Gussy !” said he, when he could speak. 

“ Where is she ?” asked he. 

“I told you, my dear,” said Mrs. Seymour. “Augusta is 
with me ; she is up-stairs.” 

Philip made a movement towards the door as if he would 
go to her, but Mrs. Seymour laid her hand upon his arm. 

“Not now, Philip ; you must not go to her now. Augusta 
is not well ; she is up-stairs.” 

“ She is not dying also ?” asked Philip, with a childish look 
of affright. 

“ Oh no, God forbid ! but she has been, and is, very ill. 
The excitement has brought on a fever. You shall see her 
before long ; perhaps to-morrow,” said Mrs. Seymour, trying to 
soothe his agitation. 

Philip left the house, and wandered about distractedly, he 
cared not whither. It was in a whirl of opposing feelings 
that he walked along the streets of London, at times hurriedly, 
as if business of importance urged him on ; and then slowly 
sauntering, or listlessly dragging his footsteps on, in unison 
with his frequent changes of thought. 


398 


Henry Lyle. 


He regretted honestly the death of Henry Lyle, to whom he 
had always been warmly attached, and whom he had 
respected and admired. 

He felt acutely for the sorrow of Augusta in her loss ; but 
through all would come the feeling that she was again 
free. 

It seemed almost impious so to feel at such a time, and this 
it was that caused Philip to hasten his footsteps as if he would 
escape from his own thoughts by speedy motion. Henry Lyle 
but just buried, and he, his friend, so dreaming ! Yet all the 
old recollection of his boyish love would come back to him ; 
his disappointment, the regrets which had sealed his heart 
against any new attachment, the friendship, as he thought it, 
which he had since felt so fervently towards Augusta, and 
which now revealed itself in its true colours, as but the con- 
tinuation of the same love. She was free, and he was now 
an honest and hard-working man, having realized a small 
income by his own exertions, and capable of increasing it. 

Philip Wilson knew nothing of the facts connected with the 
death of Arthur Yere. 

What then ? He did not attempt, even to his own heart, to 
give an answer ; yet the mere question sent the blood to his 
heart, and back again. 

The following day, Philip did see Augusta, but she did not 
recognize him. She returned his caresses, but called him 
sometimes by one name, sometimes by another ; and, looking 
towards Mrs. Seymour, who stood by the bedside, she spoke to 
her fondly, as if she had been Henry Lyle. 


Henry Lyle. * 


399 


“This is Philip; are not you glad to see him?” asked Mrs. 
Seymour. 

“ Oh, very glad,” Augusta answered. “ Dear Philip, when 
did you return? Harry, my darling, Philip is come to see 
you. Are you well enough to speak to him ?” 

“ I can’t stand this,” said Philip Wilson, looking very 
excited ; and Mrs. Seymour advised him to leave the room. 

Philip did not see his cousin again until her senses had 
returned, and he was told that she was calm and anxious to 
meet him. He was surprised at finding her so placid. He 
had expected, at least, an outburst of tears ; but although in 
speaking of her Lyle — a subject she never strove to avoid — her 
eyes glistened as they had done during his lifetime, there was 
no outward manifestation of grief — nothing like the sorrow 
when Lyle’s health had first become unsettled. 

She spoke that day of him, and of him only, in the same 
endearing terms she had ever used with regard to him ; and 
she spoke of him as being, not as having been. 

Philip turned his face away from his cousin, and his kind 
heart overflowed at his eyes. 

Augusta saw it, and drawing him towards her by the hand, 
she put her arm round his neck — such a little, thin arm, that 
Philip almost shuddered as he saw it — with sisterly fondness, 
and embraced him. 

“ Do not grieve for my sorrow, my dear brother,” said she. 
“ It was a sad thing to be parted from him, and to think how 
long that parting may be ; but it is only an outward separa- 
tion, and soon, perhaps, even that mav be at an end.” 


400 


Henry Lyle. 


Wilson looked in her face as if he feared her mind had been 
overwrought and was wandering ; but she smiled, and returned 
the glance so openly and confidingly that there was no room 
for such suspicions left. 

From that hour, all visionary thoughts of love were dead in 
Philip’s bosom ; he would as soon have offered passion to an 
angel, or hafre wooed his neighbour’s wife. As a brother, 
indeed, Philip watched over and cared for and loved Augusta, 
attending upon her continually, talking with her of him who 
was never dead to her, but only “ gone before.” 

To the end, Augusta never knew the mighty struggle which 
had been in Philip’s noble heart ; he had unselfishness suffi- 
cient to conceal even his victory over self. Together they 
hoped and looked towards that personal meeting which was 
one day surely to take place ; together they pursued the works 
of former days, neglecting neither body, soul, nor mind ; 
together they learned to love all men for the sake of “ Him who 
would have all men to be saved,” and together walked upon 
the road to heaven. 


THE END 


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Containing Practical Advice on Improving the Complexion, the Hair, the Hands, 
the Form, the Teeth, the Eyes, the Feet, the Features, so as to insure the highest 
degree of perfection of which they are susceptible. And also upwards of One Jkm- 
dred Recipes for various Cosmetics, Oils, Pomades, etc., etc., being the result of a 
combination of Practical and Scientific Skill. By Sir James Clark, Private Physi- 
cian to Queen Victoria. Revised and edited by an American Physician and Chemist. 

Price 25 cents, and we send it free of postage. 



BY MRS. ANN S. STEVENS. 


Copiously illustrated with original and very choice Designsin Crochet, etc., print- 
ed in colors, separate from the letter-press, on tinted paper. Also with numerous 
wood-cuts printed with the letter-press, explanatory of terms, etc. Oblong, pp. 117, 
beautifully bound in extra cloth, gilt. Price 75 cents. 

This is by far the best work on the subject of Crochet yet published. There are 
plenty of other books containing Crochet patterns, but the difficulty is, they do not 
have the necessary instructions howto work them, and are, therefore, useless. This 
work, however, supplies this much felt and glaring deficiency, and has the terms in 
Crochet so clearly explained that any Crochet pattern, however difficult, may be 
worked with ease. 

Copies of the above mailed to any address in the United States free of postage. 


5 



GARRETT, DICK & FITZGERALD’S 

List of Publications. 

Books by Celebrated Authors. 


WHICH— THE RIGHT OR THE LEFT? 

A Religious Novel. Royal 12mo., cloth. 634 pages. Price $1 25. 

This work has received favorable notice from the entire secular as well as the reli- 
gious press. The main design of the author is the illustration of the fact that suc- 
cess in business may easily consort with fervid piety and the strictest honesty on 
the part of those engaged in it. The story is that of a young man, the son of a 
country pastor, who goes as an assistant into a dry goods store, at New York ; and 
not only maintains his religious principles amidst the allurements of the capital, but 
succeeds in drawing within their happy influence a number of the clerks and other 
[ assistants, who at first scoffed at his “ rural piety,” as they termed it, but were at 
length led by him to abandon the frivolities which had formed their former delight, 
and devote themselves to religious exercises and the visitation of the sick and poor. 
His influence reached even a higher circle ; and the author gives us some lively 
sketches of the insipidity and heartlessness of fashionable life, whose unhappy devo- 
tees choose to live for society and self, rather than for Religion and their fellow- 
creatures. 

*** The Publishers have in their possession, testimonials from over three hundred 
of the principal Clergymen in the United States and Canada, pronouncing this to be 
the best work that has been published for years, and in every instance they are the 
honest convictions formed after an actual perusal of the volume itself. This work 
has also received high laudation from almost every paper of character and standing 
in this country. Added to which it has been read by thousands, and has received 
universal commendation. 


ESTELLE GRANT ; OR, THE LOST WIFE. 

Large 12mo, cloth. Price $1 00. 

This is a book so thoroughly excellent, so exalted in its character, so full of exqui- 
site pictures of society, and manifesting so much genius, skill, and knowledge of 
human nature, that no one can possibly read it without admitting it to be, in every 
way, a noble book. The story, too, is one of stirring interest ; and it either sweeps 
you along with its powerful spell, or beguiles you with its tenderness, pathos, and 
geniality. 


THE PILGRIMS OF WALSINGHAM 

A Romance of the Middle Ages, from the accomplished pen of Agnes Strickland. 
Large 12mo., pp. 460 . Price $1 00. 

Truly a charming book ! Full of the profoundest interest, yet not one improbable 
incident — not one prurient idea. You will sooner find spots upon the leaves of the 
silvery lily than an impure sentence in a book by this author .— Buffalo Courier. 


NA M0TIJ ; OR, REEF R0VIHGS IN TIIE SOUTH SEAS. 

A Narrative of Adventures in the Hawaiian, Georgian, and Society Islands, with 

original illustrations. 

BY EDWARD T. PERKINS 
12mo. Cloth. $1 00 

Na Motu is the quaint title of a handsome volume of voyage and adventure in the 
South Seas. Mr. Perkins, the author, a schoolmate of Ike Marvel, has spent seve- 
ral years before the mast, and on the salt water in other capacities, and his style is 
characterized by a straightforward, honest nonchalance and idiomatic flavor, redolent 
of Old Ocean from stem to stern. His daguerreotype of nautical dialogues is only a 
little too perfect, occasionally, for good taste ; a large portion of his experience being 
gained on a whaling ship.— New York Church Jour. 

6 



GARRETT, DICK & FITZGERALD’S 

List q£ Publications. 


W. H. Maxwell’s Novels. 


THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN BLAKE. 

Illustrated. 200 octavo pages. 60 cents. 

The Adventures of Capt. Blake is a thrilling work, replete with adventure, incident, 
character, and plot of an exciting description. It will prove one of the most popular 
novels of the season. The interest excited is very great, and we regret that it will 
not bear such, division as would enable us to give an intelligible extract. — Weekly 
Dispatch. 


THE BIVOUAC ; 

OR, 

THE EIVAL SUITORS. 

With beautiful illustrations. 190 octavo pages. 60 cents. 

This capital book is of the “Charles O’Malley” school ; full of dashing adventures, 
love intrigues, brilliant sketches of battle scenes, in which the inspiring, headlong 
charge and terrible defeat are detailed with all the force of truth. The warlike de- 
scriptions will vie with the most animated scenes in Alison or Napier : and the humor- 
ous portions of the book have no peers but in the pages of Lever or Lover. 

Novels by Samuel Lover. 


RORY O’MOORE. 

A ROMANCE. 

This work is illustrated, and contains 230 octavo pages. Price 60 cents. 

Man is the only animal endowed with the faculty of Laughter, and why should he 
not, then, on all fitting occasions, carry out the happy designs of his creation ? He 
should— he should ! and not merely with the cynical grin of a dyspeptic hyena 
neither, but in good round, hilarious, window-rattling bursts, such as almost every 
page of Lover’s Irish Stories will throw him into . — Saturday Courier, 


HANDY ANDY. 

A NOVEL. 

One of the most humorous works ever written. Illustrated. Price 60 cents. 

All who are familiar with the fun, humor, and wit, which are to be found in every 
line of this national romance. We need hardly say that it is from the versatile pen 
of Samuel Lover, Esq., whose expressions in describing the scenes and heroes of his 
fancy have cracked many a side, and convulsed many a countenance with laughter. 
Handy Andy speaks for itself to the hearts of all gay, jolly, and mirth-loving folks. 


BARNEY O’RIERDON ; 

OR, 

THE ADVENTURES OF A BASHFUL IRISHMAN. 

Price 25 cents. 

Here is one of the most laughable novels ever written. The adventures of the hero, 
Barney, the bashful Irishman, is one continued string of ludicrous and comical blun- 
ders: he gets into all kinds of scrapes, and by his impudence and native wit, extri- 
cates himself from the consequences. 


GARRETT, DICK & FITZGERALD’S 

List o f Pu b l ica tions. 


LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND ; 

OR, 

THE ADVENTURES OE PADDY MULLOWNEY. 

Price 25 cents. 

Mr. Lover has here produced his best work of fiction, which will survive when half 
the Irish sketches with which the literary world teems are forgotten. 


FRANK HILTON, 

OR, 

THE QUEEN’S OWN; 

A COMPANION TO “ HARRY LORRE QUER,” $c. 

A reader on the look-out for a Novel crammed full of incident, excitement, and 
the wildest adventure, will find in “Frank Hilton” what he desires- It is clever — 
some of the descriptions of Eastern and desert scenes are even beautiful — but the in- 
cidents are too wonderful and too rapid to give them much chance of being relished 
on the first perusal. The story is built up like a castle in the clouds— the impossi- 
bilities are bridged over with all the smoothness of a dream. 


Humorous Books. 


MRS. PARTINGTON’S 

CARPET BAG OF FUN. 

Illustrated with over 150 of the most laughable engravings ever designed, from draw- 
ings by Darley, McLennan, Leech, Phiz, Henning, Hine, Tenniel, Crowquill, 
Cruikshank, Meadows, Doyle, Goater, and others, and a collection of 
over 1000 of the most comical stories, amusing adventures, 
side-splitting jokes, cheek-extending poetry, funny 
conundrums. 

QUEER SAYINGS OF MRS. PARTINGTON 

heart-rending puns, witty repartees, etc., etc. 

The whole illustrated by 150 comic wood cuts. 12mo. 300 pages. 

Ornamented paper cover .... 50 cents. 

Cloth, gilt with tinted frontispiece by Darley. .75 “ 

This entertaining book is well printed on fine white paper, and contains 300 pages, 
with tinted frontispiece by Darley. 

Over 20,000 copies of this work have already been sold. 


LAUGHING GAS ; 

AN ENCYCLOPEDIA OF WIT, WISDOM AND WIND. 

BY SAM SLICK, JR. 

Comically illustrated, with 100 original and laughable Engravings, and near 500 side- 
extinding jokes, and other things to get fat on ; and the best of it is, that 
everything about the book is new and fresh. All new — new designs, 
new stories, new type — no comic almanac stuff. It will be 
found a complete antidote to “ hard times.” 

Price 25 cents. 


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